


Dreaming of Dreaming

by TheAstronomyMod



Category: Interpol, Secret Machines
Genre: F/M, Mary Sue, POV Original Female Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-20
Updated: 2013-05-14
Packaged: 2017-12-05 21:48:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 20
Words: 121,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/728264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAstronomyMod/pseuds/TheAstronomyMod
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An unapologetic MarySue story, based on the premise: what would happen if a ~cute girl~ had joined Secret Machines on guitar after Benjamin left? Charley Wildwood, a shoegaze guitarist from Chicago, 'accidentally' joins her favourite band, and is sucked into the heady world of NYC indie-rock. Can she keep her head - and her job - while nursing a gargantuan crush on the singer of her own band?</p><p>This is primarily a Secret Machines fan fiction (actually it's primarily a Brandon Curtis fan fiction) but due to the intertwined nature of the bands, there's rather a lot of Interpol in it. (Which should be highly amusing as I don't actually know that much about Interpol, they've turned out a bit cartoonish.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work of complete fiction. Usually, when I write RPF fan fiction, I try to stay as close as possible to the (media-depicted) actual lives and personalities of the people involved. In this novel, I have deliberately chosen to bend, twist, and outright lie for the sake of a good story. There's a ton of stuff in here I know to be COMPLETE FALSEHOOD. No disrespect is intended to the people so depicted, especially regarding the relationship between the Curtis Brothers. I *know* it didn't happen this way; I'm sorry, it just made a better story.
> 
> Timelines have deliberately been twisted and manipulated for fictional purposes. These events happen some time after Benjamin Curtis left Secret Machines, but before Carlos D left Interpol. The tour depicted never happened, at least, not at the point in time I've written it happening.
> 
> BASICALLY EVERYTHING IS MADE UP BUT THEN AGAIN, IT IS FAN *FICTION*.
> 
> Oh yes, there is an attempted rape scene. I will flag it with a TW at the head of that chapter. It is not that integral to the plot if you would rather not read it.

I was not prepared for a rock star opening the door. And I mean, an honest to god, seen him on MTV with his floppy blond fringe slicked across his forehead and his mouth full of perfect white teeth like a row of California surfboards Rock Star. I'd only been in New York about three months, I wasn't quite used to it yet, seeing rock stars browsing in record shops, film actors in coffee shops and television celebrities just strolling down the street in Manhattan, like they were just regular people, despite the cheekbones and perfect hair. So there I was, feeling like a little farmgirl that had just stepped off the bus at the Port Authority Bus Terminal, even though I was supposed to be a Totally Professional Musician, going for an audition, at some rehearsal studio in the cool end of Brooklyn.

Thankfully, I did not actually lose my shit and squeal like a little girl, mostly because I could not actually remember the rock star's name, or indeed, the name of the major label indie-rock outfit he was the frontman for, but unfortunately, I did lose my grip slightly on the broken strap of my guitar's case, and it started to slip perilously out of my hand.

"Whoa, let me get that for you," said the Rock Star, flashing his perfect teeth as he caught the guitar mid-slide. He would almost have been impossibly good-looking, were it not for the spray of moles across his face, like someone had flicked a paintbrush full of brown paint across his cheeks. So I concentrated on the moles, and tried not to look him in his almost electric blue eyes. Were human beings even supposed to have eyes that colour?

"Thanks," I stuttered, somewhat defensively, as I was still a bit funny about other people touching my gear, but then I remembered the gig bag I was holding in my other hand, and rushed to make sure I didn't drop that, as well. "Sorry, I'm here for the audition?" I added, hoping this would explain the guitar, if not my awkwardness.

The Rock Star looked at the guitar, slightly confused, then looked at me, then back at the guitar, then broke into a slightly embarrassed tight-lipped grin. "Hang on, you're Charley?"

"I'm Charley," I agreed defensively, shifting my gig bag to my other shoulder and reaching for my guitar case.

"But you're a chick," Rock Star pointed out, learning louchely against the wall and flicking his hair out of his eyes in a way that made me feel slightly self conscious about having chosen to put on lipstick and a bit of eyeliner before I left the house that afternoon.

"It's short for Charlotte." I tried to keep the growl out of my voice, though, to be honest, these kinds of reactions were the reason that I used the more masculine sounding nickname when I responded to band ads, so that I at least managed to get a foot in the door before I had to deal with the usual stereotypes.

"Yeah, but in the video..." Rock Star paused. "That was you in the video you linked on YouTube, right?"

"Look, I know the picture quality was shit - I warned you it was recorded on someone's cameraphone. But yes, that was me." I tended to hunch over when I played guitar, totally concentrating on my strings, and with my hair in my face and my guitar cradled against my chest, it was quite difficult to tell whether I was a girl or a guy onstage, and quite frankly, I liked it better that way.

"Well, it was the sound quality we were more interested in..."

I eyed him warily. We? Oh, christ, I couldn't remember the name of his band but I had an awful sinking feeling I didn't like them very much. That was a shame, as the MP3s I'd been sent had intrigued me. "We overdubbed the sound with a decent quality soundboard recording, but that was me, with my old band, playing live," I insisted.

"Nah, it's cool. We just weren't expecting... Oh, hey, Brandon. _This_ is Charley."

I turned to look at the newcomer, peering suspiciously at us from under a scraggly mop of long, tangled, reddish-brown hair, looking for all the world like a young, Ummagumma-era David Gilmour, and the breath went out of me. Suddenly it clicked, and the pre-audition nerves, which had been their usual hum of self-defeating chatter, went into total overdrive, as I felt a distinctly queasy feeling take hold at the bottom of my stomach.

I'd seen the ad - deliberately understated, it now seemed - on the achingly hip and dead cool music and culture website my housemate, Moira, worked for, and just assumed it was another bunch of chancers trying to make it, bigging themselves up to look more successful than they were. Established Band Seeks Touring Guitarist - well, who knew what "established" meant? It was just one of those words that got tossed around on musician wanted ads, like "no timewasters" and claiming "major label interest" if someone's cousin went to school with a dude who was an intern at Sony and said they might come to a gig if they put him on the guest list.

But I'd liked the list of influences, the usual hip name-checking of obscure Krautrock bands and weird Japanese psych, early Pink Floyd, couple of British shoegaze bands, some tasteful electronica - and Hawkwind. It was the Hawkwind reference that did it for me. Like, despite the painfully arty Japanese NOIZE stuff they listed, no one who loved Hawkwind enough to claim them as a major influence could really be that pretentious, could they?

So I'd answered, sending the YouTube video, and a link to my SoundCloud, made a joke about Orgone Accumulators and said Warrior On The Edge of Time was my favourite album, not really expecting to hear anything back. To my surprise, a week later, there was a brief and to the point reply with a link to an MP3 dropbox. I listened to the track 3 or 4 times before I really knew what to do with it. Although I liked the groove of it - amazing drums - and though the chord progressions were certainly inventive enough to come up with something really interesting to hang around it as a melody, I couldn't really get my head around it until I dumped it into a DAW and slowed it down to nearly half-speed. Almost as a joke, I started playing the melody from I Lost My Heart To A Starship Trooper over the top, then realised, actually it worked. Digging out my guitar pedals, I smothered the riff in fuzz and delay until it was a woozy smear of sound, recorded it quickly, then sent it back. Either they'd laugh and get the joke, or I'd never hear from them again. But to be honest, if they were the kind of band that would get butthurt by a prank like that, I didn't want to be in that band.

There was a terse email in my inbox the next morning, inviting me to come out to Brooklyn for an audition, with a note added at the bottom, just saying "well spotted."

I would never have been so flippant if I'd known who I was talking to. Hell, if I'd known, I would probably have been too starstuck and shy to play a thing. Or else I'd have wasted weeks and weeks trying to get the perfect take of the perfect riff, and been too paralysed by insecurity to ever send off the result. And now I was standing just in the front door of what looked suspiciously like a converted fire station, being stared at by people I knew only from photos in magazines.

"Can I take that for you?" Rock Star offered, jolting me back to the present, and the absurdity of the situation I now found myself in. Then again, it seemed absurd to refer to him as the rock star, when Brandon Curtis was standing less than ten feet away from me, still peering at me with a curious expression that was starting to break into a smile, the glitter of silver teeth beneath pouted lips reaffirming that this was not some doppelganger. He was much more handsome in person - which seemed an odd thing to say, given how sullenly beautiful he had always looked in photos - but there was a glint to his chocolate-brown eyes that lit up his face with animation, especially the way one of his eyebrows seemed to twitch up his forehead at a slightly devilish angle, as if he were privy to some secret no one else understood.

"Take what?" I blurted out when it dawned on me that Rock Star was asking a question that expected an answer.

"Your bag?" He held out a hand towards me, but I instinctively backed away.

"Knock it off, Paul." A definite grin now, as an unreadable expression passed between them for a moment, but then Brandon shrugged, turned around and lead the way back down the corridor he'd emerged from. The double door on the outside, clearly for security, was matched by another double set of doors at the other end, though this seemed to be for soundproofing. We stepped through into what I'd come to think of as the archetypical dingy, low-lit Brooklyn rehearsal pad. There was a familiar oversized drum kit in one corner, a pile of amps, a rack of vintage synths, a Rhodes organ... shit, I recognised this gear by sight, it was displayed proudly on the cover of one of my favourite albums of all time.

"Be a good host, Brandon, aren't you going to offer your guest a drink?" Paul needled him gently.

"Sorry," murmured Brandon, turning around from the box of cables he'd been digging in, to face me. It was so hard not to stare, looking at the rough, slightly scarred skin of his jaw, his round face, his chipmunk cheekbones, the curve of his pouting lips, the deep-set eyes ringed with surprisingly long and pale eyelashes. He stared back, and couldn't help the feeling that he was evaluating me, like this was some kind of test I had to pass or fail before the audition. "Tea or coffee?"

"It's only instant coffee," Paul warned. I made a face.

"It's good tea, though," Brandon asserted. "English Breakfast. Picked up the taste for it on tour in the UK." There was the edge of pride in his voice, almost like he was boasting - as if I needed to be reminded that he had been in a band that had toured Europe and been to England and everything.

"I'll have tea then, I guess." I didn't think I'd ever even had English Breakfast - my experience in tea didn't stretch much beyond the occasional Tension Tamer herbal tea Moira made me swig when cranky with PMS.

"Milk and sugar?"

That threw me. How not to give away my ignorance? "No milk unless you've got soy milk" I replied cautiously, moving over towards the rehearsal area and peering at the amps.

"You can use that one," Brandon directed, pointing casually towards an Orange stack. "No need to set up just yet, god only knows when Josh will get here."

Josh. I gulped nervously, and turned towards the amp to try and hide my nerves. So this wasn't some solo project, this was the real deal. I had just accidentally walked into an audition with one of my favourite bands on earth. How the hell had I managed this? I'd been in New York only a few months, this was maybe the third audition I'd been on since I'd got here. (A bunch of chancers who said they liked shoegaze, but were far into that retro jangly shit for my taste, followed by a neo-grunge band who I actually got along with really well, but I could not be bothered to trek all the way out to Hoboken twice a week to rehearse with.) I'd had their poster on my wall. I'd gone, back in Chicago, to watch them support some boring A-list indie-rock band - oh shit, the boring indie-rock band whose singer was now perched on the back of a shapeless grey sofa, still smiling at me in a way that made me slightly uncomfortable.

"Not quite what you expected, huh?" he ventured, with an unmistakable wink. My trepidation must have been written all over my face.

I cast a cautious glance towards the back door Brandon had disappeared through. "I'm... I'm a fan. A big fan." For a moment, concern flickered in Paul's face, so I clarified. "I loved Secret Machines. I don't just have all their albums. I have the E.P.s. The live tapes. The Marfa video. I'm a... _fangirl_ fan."

Paul grinned, dimples appearing at the corners of his cheeks, in a way that I knew must make the fangirls in the front row go weak in the knees. "You should tell him that. You should totally tell him that, he needs to hear it."

"No way." And as his eyes darted towards the door, I added. "And don't you dare."

We sat in silence as I opened up my gig bag and started to take the boxes containing my effects pedals out, lining them up in a row, thinking carefully through what order I would wire them up in.

"Oh, no way, you can't do that. You're going to have to get them wired into a pedal board to go on tour," Paul offered, and my stomach did a little back flip. Tour. I hadn't thought this through. I'd only just got to NYC, I didn't want to leave just yet. But a tour... my heart actually leapt at the idea. This was it, this was the whole reason I'd moved to NYC, to try to find a band that really wanted to do this, that wouldn't just balk at the idea of driving over to Detroit or up to Minneapolis to play a gig as far too much of a commitment. "Don't worry, we know a really good guitar tech who can do it no problem," he offered, as if that were all that were holding me back. "Aw, cheers," he suddenly announced, with an affected English accent.

I looked up to see a pair of black cowboy boots standing in front of me, and a hand reaching down to offer me a steaming cup of tea. "Thanks," I squeaked out, though I wasn't sure exactly what I was supposed to do with the tea - drink it scalding hot, blow on it to cool it, or wait until it was tepid enough to drink. The hand didn't disappear, it reached for one of my guitar pedals and started to examine it, as the rest of the body it was attached to slowly bent down, until Brandon was crouched at my level, his head only inches away from my own. As he stared at my pedal, I stared at his hair, long, shoulder length, dark brown at the roots, fading to a sort of reddish blond at the ends, clean-ish, but still giving off a faint musk of pheromone and boy-sweat.

"What is this, a volume pedal or a wah? Doesn't look like any wah I've seen."

"Neither," I stuttered, snatching it back as soon as it seemed polite to do so. "It's a tremolo-pan. The foot-controller is for altering the speed of it while you're playing - or you can synch it to MIDI if you want to take the tempo off a click track."

"Click track." He let out a derisive snort of amused laughter. "Don't let Josh hear you talking about no click track." Despite the years in New York, there was still the soft twang of a slight Texan accent to his voice.

"Don't let me hear you talking about what?" A door banged somewhere and the huge, energetic presence of the drummer seemed to fill the room. He was a huge man, not just tall but wide, with a barrel chest and a cloud of long, curly black hair. Latino, darkly handsome, with an infectious smile. "Oh, hey. Who's the cute chick?"

"This is Charley, the Hot Gossip fan," Brandon explained, the slightly sarcastic smile spreading quickly across his face again.

"Aw yeah? I loved that riff." Josh started to lightly tap out a brisk disco beat on his thighs before switching to the back of Paul's expensive suit jacket. "I lost my heart to a starship trouper, flashing lights in hyper-space... love that space-disco shit."

"A Buck Rogers view of the musical future," I quipped, feeling oddly relieved by the burly drummer's appearance. Like, once I was back on the topic of music, instead of myself, I felt safe again. "There was that whole mini-genre after Star Wars. Sarah Brightman, Messages From The Stars by the Rah Band, that Automatic Lover song..."

"I don't think I know that one," smirked Brandon.

"Was that Millie Jackson?" Josh wondered aloud.

"Dee D. Jackson," I corrected. Why oh why did I have such an encyclopaedic memory of every shitty song of the past 30 years.

"How does it go?"

"Love in space and time, there's no more feeling," I sung softly. "Automatic lover, cold and unappealing..." This was not happening. I was not singing shitty cosmic disco hits of the 70s to two members of Secret Machines and the singer from Interpol.

"It's got such an awesome video, you need to see it," Josh winked, acting out the video with his hands. "It's got this giant silver robot, and this lady in a silver cape, and a sparkly catsuit comes out and starts..."

"This is not one of your robot pornos, is it?" Paul snickered.

"Hey, quiet," Brandon interrupted, with an uncomfortable edge of chivalry. "There's a girl in the studio."

I rolled my eyes. I'd been a musician for a long time, I was used to hanging out with groups of lads. If there was one thing I knew, it was that I had to establish - and establish early - that being a girl did not mean that I expected any special treatment, or curtailing of good, honest rock'n'roll fun. "Robot pornos? What, like the ones that Barry from Add N To X used to release on the internet? Drummer from my old band had assembled a whole DVD of them, they were hilarious, though, not particularly sexy, unfortunately."

Josh exploded with laughter, pointing at me and nodding, his cloud of curly black hair bobbing in agreement. There was just something so laid-back and easy-going about him that I liked him instantly. "Those were so funny. There was that one where the lady fucked the robot, and she was just totally hot to trot, but she completely wore the robot out, and it went BOOM! and all its diodes were like..." He made a whistling noise as he waved his fingers around his head.

"Josh!" snapped Brandon sharply, and our giggles stopped, like guilty schoolchildren.

"Honestly," I assured him. "I don't mind."

"I mind," insisted Brandon, and that was the end of it. I went back to wiring my pedals together, and Josh manoeuvred his way noisily behind the drumkit, tightening skins and rattling his snares.

I got my guitar out and started tuning up as Brandon fiddled with his keyboard, trying to bury my nerves in the familiar rituals. Brandon stroked the keys of his Rhodes as if caressing the skin of a lover, his hair falling in his face as he frowned in concentration. "Do you want to do that song she knows already, or do you want to work on that new thing?" He shot another unreadable look over at Josh, as I tried to work out what was going on. Did this mean they'd already decided against me, and they were just going to rehearse as if I wasn't even there, or was this some kind of declaration of trust, that they were willing to bring me into their creative process?

"Shouldn't we do Starship Trouper, since she knows that one already?" Josh shrugged.

"Not if you're going to call it that," Brandon snapped, irritated.

"Look, if it's the new song you were working on the other night, I can teach her how it goes," Paul suggested, moving over towards the rehearsal area as if he was afraid we'd forgotten him.

I just looked at him, and realised a little too late that the look I'd given him was a little too withering for someone I'd only just met, and really should have been trying to impress. "Just play it," I insisted. "I'm pretty good at picking things up by ear - though if you have sheet music, I can sight read."

"Sheet music," whistled Paul, though whether he was being sarcastic or not, I couldn't quite tell.

"If you want to help out, you can play my bass," Brandon directed, gesturing with his head, causing the locks he'd tucked behind his ears to cascade forward into his face. But then he leaned forward over the keyboard, and started to play, and he took my breath away. For a moment, I just stared, distracted by the look of pouting concentration on his face, but then I closed my eyes, trying to follow the chord sequence. I needed not to be distracted to take advantage of my perfect pitch - yes, that was an A, followed by a G minor, followed by an unexpected F natural - suspended. Oh wait, it was some kind of mutant Glam Descend, I could follow that. I turned on my delay pedal, and a tiny bit of phaser, slowly edging the volume on the guitar up to get the burr of mains hum, and waited for the melody to form in my head. Fuck, my mind was a blank, even as the bass kicked in, wandering down the scale with the keyboard. I picked a complementary drone tone, even as I panicked and opened my eyes, and gently started to tap the string. Brandon frowned, his face expectant as he seemed to watch me. My mind hummed, but there was still no melody. Stage fright. Panic. First night nerves.

Stop it. You can do this.

I switched on the tremolo pedal - too fast at first, an insect buzz, then used the foot controller to slowly bring it down to the lazy blues tempo of the track - about 104, nope, exactly 103. Christ, that drumkit was a monster, I could feel the physical force of the air Josh was moving like a blast of pressurised air. And then I looked back over at Brandon, watching his fingers move across the keyboard, upside down from where I was standing, his fingernails stubs, bitten down to the quick... and then I heard it. Yes.

I exhaled. This was going to be alright. My fingers found the note, and bent softly into the tune that I'd visualised in my head. Brandon cocked his head to one side, listening carefully. I nudged my first distortion pedal on, bringing up the hum of fuzz without altering the volume, and played the riff again. Now Brandon was smiling, nodding in time with the music. And then I saw him look up and catch Josh's eye, that unspoken communication that people who had played together for a long time always seemed to develop. I understood that nod, the tense of Josh's muscles as he prepared for the hit - just as I slammed on the Big Muff and sailed up an octave to play a more aggressive, frenetic version of the melody in another growling register, as the big drums kicked in, and the song took flight and soared.

Brandon was grinning openly now. "Yes!" he barked above the music. "Do that three more times, and then we go to the pre-chorus. E minor 7 and then..." He didn't need to tell me, I could see his hands move across the keys and followed them. Paul missed the cue and flubbed it, going back to the A, but I was right there, following them up as they hit their stride for the triumphant chorus. No, wait, don't get cocky... I hid my flub with a slide and a slight bend of the whammy bar and found my way back to the verse again, laying off the tremolo and replacing it with a shimmering chorus effect. A touch of reverb for that early shoegaze effect... yes, nice. The sound crystalised, but then I could see Brandon's head bobbing again, that subtle nod towards the drums - I slammed on all the distortion pedals and hit them hard with a wall of noise, rolling and bubbling as it cascaded off the tremolo pedal. Oh, yes. This was golden, this was... suddenly, it fractured, as the music came apart, the keyboard dropping out as the bass went off in one direction and the drums went off in the other. My guitar just hung in the air like a plume of feedback as Brandon shook his head and Paul threw up his hands.

"Was that the pre-chorus or the post-verse? I'm totally lost."

"F natural suspected, with a... I dunno, a sixth in there or something." Brandon glanced up at me to check I was following, his eyes excited. "You hold that for about four bars, getting bigger and bigger, louder and louder, throw everything you have at it, then when the bridge comes in, just go quiet as I come up on the A major. Now wind back a bit... we'll take it from the post-verse."

I had it by the second play-through. Well, not all the pedal changes, that would take a while to work out the textures, trying to suit the sound and the feel to the mood of the song, and really I needed the vocals for that. But I had a melody I was happy with, and a basic structure for the song.

Brandon peered at my pedals, craning his neck as he tried to read the names on them. "Your guitar tone is almost exactly halfway between Laser Guided Melodies and Atom Heart Mother," he observed. Though I couldn't quite tell if he meant it as a compliment, I certainly took it as one.

"What strings are you using?" Paul asked, craning his neck to look over at me, though I couldn't shake the feeling he was just trying to look down my shirt.

"Just Ernie Ball Super-slinky. I always have to use the heavier gauge on the Jazzmaster, though," I shrugged.

We tried another song - this one was harder, as there were more chord changes, and I couldn't quite get the count before the slow bit rolled into the hard bit. But the melody on this one! I loved it, even as I could hear it hovering just out of reach of the corner of my hearing. I mangled it the first time, and Brandon raised a sarcastic eyebrow, then nailed it the second time, and he grinned, his whole face lighting up as I caught it by the tail and spun it around, some weird minor haunting celtic-sounding thing that fit intricately on top of what he was playing. Though I found him inscrutable at other times, his face was absolutely transparent when he was playing. Pleasure, joy, frustration, annoyance, and back to pleased - it was almost as easy as watching his fingers moving across the keyboard to catch the next chord. And then we ground to a halt, dead, an accidental screech of feedback echoing out across the room as the two of them stopped on a dime, with the precision of fine German engineering. I felt like an idiot for not anticipating it, frowning down at my strings as I checked my tuner and retuned my guitar, hoping that my face wasn't flushing too badly.

Brandon and Josh kept exchanging glances I couldn't quite read. Josh was clearly very amused by something, but Paul kept grinning like the cat that had got the cream. "I'm just gonna go home, right. You guys don't need me here," he shrugged, throwing up his hands.

"No, no, stay, we'll grab dinner later. I value your opinion," Brandon insisted.

"Shall we do another one?" Josh called, flicking his sticks against the metal rims of his toms in an impatient rhythm. "How about the new, sort of Spanish-sounding one. I'd love to hear what she made of that one."

That was a good sign. That had to be a good sign. "I can't play classical guitar, I warn you, but I can do a pretty good Smiths-y finger-pick."

"Smiths-y," Brandon echoed, raising one eyebrow as he turned to Paul. "Looks like we've got us a girl Daniel, huh?"

"I can do Daniel Ash, I can do Johnny Marr, too," I insisted, as I turned off all my distortion pedals, cranked up the reverb, flicked the Jazzmaster down to the bridge pickup, then let out a convincing burst of jangle that might have been _Rushholm Ruffians_. Josh laughed, genuine joy showing on his face as he started to pick up the rollicking beat, and Brandon looked like he was about to bend down to the microphone to start to sing, when a buzzing noise rang out across the room. 

"Shit, we're out of time. That'll be the next one."

The next one. Of course. I had been having so much fun I'd forgotten that this was just an audition, and I hadn't got the gig yet. They were probably seeing half a dozen other people that day and I... well, at least I had been first. I was hoping that counted for something, even as I flicked off the amp and started to unplug all my pedals. Brandon had trudged off down the hall to let the next hopeful in, but Paul stayed where he was, still eyeing me with that tight-lipped rock star grin of his.

"Thanks for coming down, we really do appreciate it," he told me, with what sounded like genuine enthusiasm, but I felt slightly crestfallen now that I could hear Brandon chatting with the next guy, out in the hall. I tried to speed up my packing process, but I just had too many pedals. Sure, I appreciated having two distortion pedals and an overdrive when I needed to make the sound get loud, loudest, and ear-bleedingly raw, but it was a pain in the arse to set up and tear down.

And the next guy... Christ, the next guy even looked like he was already in the band, dressed like them in sharp suit trousers and a tailored waistcoat over a pressed black button-down shirt. And he, of course, had a pedal board, with a POD digital processing unit, no fucking about with wires and jacks for him. I felt suddenly hideously underdressed, in my plain black jeans, and the retro-90s black and white striped top I always wore as a kind of good luck charm at auditions, and I let my hair fall in my face as I cleared up, trying not to be seen. I could hear them talking to this new guy as I tried to clear up - to him, they were talking about cool music, Boris and Sunn0)), not joking around about silly cosmic disco one-hit wonders of the 70s. This guy's last band had supported Boris on tour in Europe - oh fuck, he had to be some kind of actual professional, not an escapee from a shitty local band trying to make it in New York. It was hopeless, what was I thinking?

Finally I was packed, so I shouldered my bags and nodded brief goodbyes, feeling my heart sinking. Maybe I could stop at Key Foods on the way home and pick up a pint of Ben and Jerry's to drown my sorrows. But just as I was leaving, Brandon suddenly looked up and caught my eye.

"We've got your email address, yeah?"

"Yeah, it should all be in the first email I sent you, contact details and everything," I shrugged, not feeling hopeful.

But then, I swear to god, he winked. And almost under his breath, he sung "Fighting for the Federation, hand in hand, we'll conquer space..."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charley is invited to a dinner party, to see how she fits into the social fabric of her new band, but will her housemate Moira make a fool of herself over Paul before she even gets the chance to find out if she passed the audition?

I was a whirl of conflicting emotions on the L train home. For a moment I wondered, you know, what it would be like to actually be a rock star, to live in Williamsburg, instead of another 3 or 4 subway stops out in Brooklyn. But then the giddiness took over. I'd just done an audition with Secret Machines. And I had not made a complete gibbering fool of myself, in fact, I'd kept up quite nicely, and maybe even sounded rather good. But then the nerve went out of me, and I was convinced I'd blown it. There was no way a band like that would ever hire an unknown, let alone an unknown girl, like me. Chalk it up to one of those genuine New York experiences, I told myself, like seeing a movie being filmed in your neighbourhood and accidentally becoming an extra by walking across the shot.

As I climbed the three flights of stairs to the apartment I shared with Moira, I was still whistling that last song of theirs to myself. Whatever else happened, I just hoped that they recorded and released it. Hanging my keys on the hook by the door, I saw that Moira was in, and called out to her as I stashed my guitar and gigbag inside my room.

"You want I should put on a pot of coffee?"

"That'd be great, cheers," she called back, then emerged, folding her glasses and stuffing them into a pocket as I went into the kitchen to put the coffeemaker on. "How did the audition go?"

"Oh my god," I murmured, closing my eyes to try and fix the scene in my head. I had to tell someone or I was going to go mad, even though I hated the idea of jinxing it by saying how much I wanted it. "You are not going to believe this."

"OK, I'm sitting down, then," Moira told me, with that strong Irish accent that appeared when she was excited, settling at her usual place at the end of the kitchen table nearest the phone. "Come on, come on, give us a clue, good or bad?"

"Wait, wait, I'm coming." I poured two cups of coffee and brought them to the table, settling opposite her and taking a reassuring sip before trying to think how to bring this up. "So I get to the rehearsal space, and it's this fantastic old fire station out in Williamsburg..."

Moira just rolled her eyes. She did not share my enthusiasm for architecture or urban psychogeography, she just wanted me to get to the goss.

"Anyway, I knock on the door, and guess who opens it?"

"Robbie Williams?" Moira's appetite for obscure British pop stars was voracious, but this was ridiculous.

"Nooo. Think New York rock stars."

"David Byrne! Madonna! Vampire Weekend!" she ejected, flustered, in rapid succession, like a bad impression of an LCD Soundsystem song.

"Getting warmer..." I sipped my coffee, rather enjoying her scattershot approach as she barked out a few more hipster bands of varying degrees of obscurity.

"No, just tell me then. No - wait. First, is it someone I fancy?"

I jogged my memory, trying to remember what pop star crushes she was juggling at the moment, but she seemed to run through them so quickly I could never keep track. "Probably. He seems like your type. Blond, preppy..."

"Blond...? Damon Albarn!" she yelped.

"Not even American," I snorted.

She picked up the end of year issue of Spin that she'd left lying on the table, as there had been a couple of her articles published in that issue. "Is he in this?"

I squinted at the table of contents. "Yup."

"OK, OK..." She flipped through the pages quickly, trying to look for blond men. "Him?"

"Nope."

Flip, flip, flip. "Him?"

"No." Flip, flip. "Wait, go back one."

"Noooooooooo." She seized up the magazine, stabbing her finger against the now-familiar face while emitting a kind of high-pitched keening noise. "You went for an audition with Paul Banks. With Paul fucking Banks. You. You don't even like Interpol!" she shrieked. "Tell me everything. What was he wearing, did he have his glasses on, how was he acting, what did he _smell_ like, close up?"

It astonished me how Moira, despite being a highly regarded and fairly well known music writer who routinely interviewed everyone from PitBull to Animal Collective, could still keep her absolute joy of squealing fangirlness when confronted with the idea of a pop star she fancied. Or maybe that was why she was so good at being a music writer, because she'd never let go of that feeling. "He was wearing... I dunno. Black suit pants? Button down shirt, blue I think, with a suit jacket or something? To be honest, it wasn't really him I was paying attention to."

"So what was it about? Come on come on, give me the gossip. This could be a huge scoop. Was this for Interpol - or was this for some solo thing?"

I shook my head. "No, Moira, this is off the record, in case this actually happens. Anyway, it wasn't his audition, he was helping out filling in with some friends. A band _I_ really like."

"Oh, you just like all that obscure German droney shit."

"It's not all droney shit," I protested. "You like the Jesus and Mary Chain! And you said you enjoyed My Bloody Valentine and Stereolab."

"I'm not going to guess. I've had enough guessing games. Just tell me."

I wasn't prepared to give up the games just yet, pouring another dash of coffee in both our cups. "Here's a clue. Got a poster of theirs on my wall." Yes, I really was 33 - the Jesus Age - and still had posters of rock bands on my wall.

Moira squinted at me, biting her lip thoughtfully. "Come on, then, you're not going to let me rest until you've told me." She stood up and walked through into my room, and I kicked aside dirty clothes to make a path to the bed. Moira flopped down, staring up at the pictures lining the room as I tried not to give it away by staring. "Hawkwind. You auditioned for Hawkwind."

"Not even American."

Her eyes flickered around the room, resting on a poster she'd actually given me - a giant blown up photo of Jonny Greenwood cradling his guitar as he fiddled with an effects pedal. "If it were him, you'd be too insensate from the squealing to even be playing this game."

"Fuck off," I giggled. "Get real. New York band."

"The Strokes? Asobi Seksu? A Place To Bury Strangers? The Brian Jonestown Massacre... for the love of god, please tell me it's not them, you have to take heroin to join that band and I'm not having junkies in my flat."

"Nope." I was staring right at the poster, trying to gesture with my head towards their name rendered in tangled, ornate art nouveau letters with solarised, psychedelic looking drawings of their faces worked in between. "Come on, it's fucking obvious."

She looked around wildly, then her eyes followed mine. "Secret Machines. Of fucking course. Interpol and Secret Machines have toured together. They're friends. That's why Paul Banks was there. Oh my god, Charley, you have to join them. Then you can introduce me to Paul Banks. I'll even let you be maid of honour at our wedding," she teased, putting her hand to her forehead and pretending to swoon.

"I don't even know if I passed the audition," I protested. I just  wanted her to shut up about that Paul Banks fellow so I could talk about the ~feels~ I was experiencing. Was it really a good idea to join a band with someone I fancied that much? Then again, did a pop star crush really count as actually fancying? It wasn't like I knew the first thing about him, really. And all of my really good bands had started with one of those ohmygod-you're-so-cool squee kinds of crushes. But then again, I didn't really want to think about what had happened towards the end of Your Silent Face, despite the video I'd sent before my audition.

"I would be too fucking nervous to play in front of Paul Banks," confessed Moira with a little dreamy sigh.

"I didn't even notice him, to be honest," I shrugged, kicking her legs out of the way to climb up onto my bed, tracing my fingers around the curlicues of long hair framing the cartoon Brandon's face on my wall.

Moira's grin snapped to attention as she noticed. "Wait, so you actually fancy the bloke from Secret Machines?"

"Yeah." It was the devilish set of his eyebrows that I found so appealing, I decided, the way they combined with that little pout to give the air that he knew something, that he was in on some cosmic in-joke that you weren't. It was irresistible.

"Awkward!"

"I know."

"You've got to join them, though. Just long enough that I can meet Paul Banks," Moira insisted, teasing me gently by stubbing me with her toes.

"Shut up."

\-----

I nearly didn't answer, a few days later, when my cell phone rang with an unrecognised number, as I'd just got in from a run, and I desperately wanted to jump in the shower. But then again, perhaps it was a call from the temp agency I'd signed up with. I couldn't afford not to answer - freelancing a couple of days a week doing IT for the website Moira worked for covered the basic bills, but it would not buy me the new analogue filter-sweep pedal I'd seen in a boutique on 46th Street. I answered, trying to sound as professional as possible.

"Metal fingers in my body!" growled my phone.

"What?"

"Metal fingers in my body, metal fingers in my body, metal fingers in my... hang on, this is Charley, isn't it?"

"Yes... who is this?" I giggled.

"It's Josh. Sorry, I guess you forgot the joke."

Oh, Christ. "No, haha, I didn't forget. You just caught me by surprise, I was expecting someone else."

"Can you talk now, or do you want me to call back?"

"No, no, it's fine. What's up?" My breath caught in the back of my throat. This had to be a courtesy call, just letting me know that they'd decided to go with someone else. That was nice of him. Then again, they seemed like decent people.

"Just calling to see how you're fixed for the next couple of weeks..."

"I've not got that much on, to be honest. Couple of auditions," I lied, just trying to make it seem like I wasn't desperate, or feeling too rejected by them. "Have you found a guitarist you like yet?"

"Hope so!" The enthusiasm in his voice made him sound like an overgrown puppy. 

"Good. I'm glad. Anyone I've heard of?"

He guffawed as if I'd just said something hilarious. "Look, I'll be honest. You blew the other two guys away. Not even close."

I stared at the bizarre Britney Spears poster that Moira had hung up on the fridge, trying to process what he was saying. "Wait. What?" Was this really happening, or was I about to wake up at any moment? Britney's satanic bubblegum grin seemed to taunt me.

"Yeah. Well... we... OK, I'll just say it. We both agreed that you were, musically, exactly what we were looking for, but... well, Brandon was a bit concerned. Like, we're... we're dudes. And we have a really, like, masculine vibe, in the studio and on the stage. We don't want to change that. And he's just worried... Well, you know. We don't want to feel like we have to be on our best behaviour all the time."

"You don't think I can hack it." My heart sunk. How could someone offer me everything I ever wanted, and then just take it away because I didn't have two balls and a dick.

"I didn't say that. He just worried that you might not be... comfortable. With us."

"Look, Josh, I have spent my entire life in bands. I am used to being in really blokey environments." ( _Blokey_? I was spending way too much time with Moira if I was picking up her 'Oirishisms' as she called them.) "Trust me, I can be more of a dude than any of you dudes can."

"That's what I thought. You don't seem the remotest bit girly to me. You're not a girl, you're a geek," he laughed, then caught himself. "No offence..."

"None taken." I was used to that being considered a compliment.

"Look, there's no question that you fit, musically, in this band. But we have a very specific chemistry. And Brandon just wanted to know how you'd fit into that. So he wanted to invite you round to hang out..."

"Hang out," I echoed. Oh, for fucks sake. Sure, it was always good to spend some social time with people you might end up trapped on a bus with for six months at a time. But the way he reported it, it sounded like Brandon wanted to audition me as a human being, as well as a guitarist, and I wasn't sure I liked that.

"Yeah, hang out. See, my wife is having a dinner party this Saturday, and we thought it would be nice to invite you, see how you get on with the gang."

"Dinner party?" It took every ounce of self control not to explode with laughter. I'd been imagining some ultra-dude-ish dude gathering, playing pool maybe, or going bowling and drinking too much cheap beer. Dinner party had not been my first guess.

"Yeah, see, we started it about a year ago. My wife is obsessed with Mad Men, and we were watching it, and when there was that scene with the cocktail party, she just said - why don't we do that? So we gave it a try, and it was a lot of fun. Get dressed up, wear suits, and our girls get to wear their fancy dresses, and we drink cocktails and smoke Cuban cigars if we can get them, and talk about politics and poetry and painting and stuff. It's cool, it's a lot more fun that it sounds, kind of like a fancy party. Paul really gets into it - him and Brandon are total clotheshorses, you may have noticed. But it's just an excuse to dress up a bit. Come. Bring your boyfriend, partner, whatever..."

"I don't have a boyfriend," I protested cagily, feeling a bit prickly about that. But then I looked at the Britney poster again, and got an idea. Oh god, maybe this was an incredibly bad idea, but she'd kill me if I didn't at least try. "Can I bring a... _friend_ , though? My roommate," I added quickly.

"Yeah, yeah, bring whoever you like. You plus one. I'll tell my wife. Any food allergies, intolerances she should know about?"

"Erm... I'm vegan. Is that a problem?" I broached nervously.

"Nah, it's fine. She's cooked for Daniel, he's vegetarian, and so's Paul's girlfriend, vegetarian and lactose intolerant. My wife just views it as a challenge."

"Give me the address, we'll come."

As soon as I put the phone down with him, I rang Moira at her office. I had to hold the phone a bit away from my ear to avoid being deafened by her squeal when I told her - but I think she was pleased.

\-----

Moira took me clothes shopping in a vintage warehouse out in Queens somewhere. She made me put on a dress - for fucks sake, I had not worn a dress since Confirmation at my Mom's church, when I was 14 years old. I stared at myself in the mirror, looking and feeling like a weird, bony drag queen, then dug in my heels and refused, point blank, to wear it. While Moira tried on 50s style frock after frock, I dodged back upstairs and started flipping through the suits. After all - if they hired me - and Jesus Christ, what an if - I would have to find something to wear onstage with them.

I loved the 60s suits, with their straight, boxy lines and their three buttons, but the mod thing wasn't really my era. The late 70s suits were ridiculous, with their wide lapels and flapping double breasts. But somewhere inbetween, I found an early 70s suit with a nipped-in waist and sort of satiny lapels, that had a slightly louche but not quite glam Roxy Music vibe to it. While Moira was still trying to squeeze herself into an emerald green sheath dress, I found a silk shirt, and pushed into the dressing room next to her to try it on.

Shaking my hair out of its short ponytail into my face, I stared into the mirror, and a rather intense young man stared back. It was kind of freaky, actually, how easy it was for me to pass for a boy, the long, lean limbs and almost total lack of a chest that had caused me so much teasing at school had grown into the kind of coltish androgynous looks that lots of girls seemed to strive for now.

As Moira came out of her dressing room, she did a double take. "I was about to say, the men's dressing rooms are upstairs, but... holy shit. If you were a dude, I'd totally bang you." She kept a straight face for just a half second too long, then started to laugh at the worry on my face. "Awkward!"

"Shut up!" I giggled, then pouted at myself in the mirror again, striking what I thought of as a dude-ly pose. That would show Brandon, I thought to myself, but at the thought of him, I suddenly wanted to remind him I was actually female. "Maybe if I wear it with a gash of bright red lipstick and a ton of Ronnie Spector mascara..."

"You'll confuse the hell out of the little girls in the front row."

"Maybe that's the point?"

\-----

Moira bought the green silk sheath dress, though she had to put on a pair of spanx to be completely happy with how it looked. I bought the suit, and even had it dry-cleaned to counter my mother's voice echoing in my head, telling me someone might have died in it. And so on Saturday night, both of us dressed up to the nines, we somehow pooled together the money for an expensive bottle of vodka and presented ourselves at the top floor of a converted tenement building on the Lower East Side. We were buzzed in with the intercom, and rode the elevator up, to find Paul holding the door open for us. I wanted to make a joke about him being Secret Machine's major domo, but Moira made a kind of a strangled whimpering noise and clutched onto my arm like she was drowning as we walked over.

"Charlotte," he greeted, looking me up and down as I looked him up and down. Dammit, his silk suit was better cut than mine, it had probably been tailored to him. I was used to being a dirty dronerock girl; I had never experienced suit envy before.

"Charley," I insisted, leaning forward to accept a kiss on the cheek. "And this is Moira, my, erm, roommate."

"Hi," squeaked Moira, smiling up at him. So this was what it took to rattle the normally unflappable Moira. To her credit, she didn't actually squeal, or lose it like a teenage girl, or give any visible sign of her discomposure on the outside, aside from clinging to my arm like a limpet. Oh god, was I going to tease her about this later, maybe even on the subway ride back home. As Paul bent down to kiss her on the cheek, I felt her fingernails dig into my hand, and resolved to tease her about it perhaps even as soon as his back was even turned.

"Stop it," I hissed at her as he turned to introduce us to the rest of the room, trying to untangle her fingernails from my arm before she drew blood.

"Dimples," she whispered back into my ear. "Even his dimples have dimples."

"Behave yourself, or they won't let me join the band," I hissed back.

"Let me introduce you to everyone," Paul ventured. "Josh, you know, of course, but that's his wife, Alyssa, over by the oven, with my partner, Jacinta." I nodded to the women, both tall, model-slim brunettes, but it was the apartment that captured my attention. Oh for fucks sake, it was a huge open plan room, the walls knocked through so that the living room and kitchen flowed into one another, all with panoramic views out over lower Manhattan. Now this was a rock star flat. "Ah, and here's Brandon."

My breath caught in the back of my throat as he wandered into view, holding what looked like a tumbler of whisky in one hand, and a small cigar in the other. His hair was freshly washed, and brushed down so that it curled gently onto the shoulders of his smart, navy blue three-piece suit. Pale blue shirt with narrow white stripes, open-necked under a waistcoat... oh god, he even had a watch chain in his waistcoat pocket. He wasn't rock star handsome, not in the way Paul was, his prominent nose was a bit too blocky, his brown eyes a little too deep-set, the smile lines around his mouth a little too worn in, but still, he had a kind of grizzled beauty that took my breath away every time I looked at him. He looked back at me and broke into a hesitant smile, his lips parting with a slight sparkle of silver that looked like pleasure. I met his gaze and held it, even arching one eyebrow as if to say, _dude-ish? I can do dude-ish, dude_ , and he grazed his teeth gently across his bottom lip.

And suddenly Paul spoke, breaking our gaze. "You remember Charley. And this is Moira, her..." A fraction of a second too long a pause. "... _roommate_."

Brandon's face fell. He looked away, frowning, as my heart beat frantically in my chest. What? What was it? What had I done wrong?

But Josh appeared beside us, and asked what we wanted to drink. "Moira..." I warned, finally detaching her hand from my arm and reminding her that she was carrying the bottle of expensive vodka in her purse. " We brought this for you."

"Oh, wow, Jacinta will love this. What do you take with Bisongrass vodka? Apple juice, is it?"

"Sounds great." As Moira followed him through into the kitchen area, casting evaluating glances at her competition, I moved over to talk to Brandon, now staring moodily out one of the picture windows, down towards Wall Street. "This is a beautiful apartment," I ventured, reaching for conversation.

"It's Paul's. Don't get any ideas that you'll live this kind of lifestyle if you join our band," he shrugged, rather too quickly.

"I'm from a tiny village in Indiana so small it doesn't even have its own zip code. All of New York City is like a fantasy rock star lifestyle to me."

That provoked a wry smile. "You ever seen Norman, Oklahoma? It's about the same. Two streets and some tumbleweeds."

"I thought you were from Dallas."

"I thought you were from Chicago."

"Touche." I wanted, desperately to ask him where his partner was - if, indeed, he even had a partner. But it just seemed too rude to ask, straight off the bat, and I wanted to prolong, if only for a few hours, the fantasy that someone like him might actually be single - might actually be _available_. "Where do you live, then? Now, I mean."

"You've seen it."

"What, the rehearsal studio?"

"There's an upstairs. It's cosy enough. No one else would live there, what with all the noise that we, and Interpol make."

"Don't tell me Paul owns that, too." It made me sad, to think that this amazingly talented man seemed to be living in the shadow of someone so much more successful than him.

"Nope, that's all mine." He grinned, his metal tooth glinting, and pushed his hair out of his face, tucking his hair behind his ears. I subconsciously echoed the gesture, mirroring him as I pushed my own hair out of the way. "What about you and... Moira?"

"We live several more stops out on the L. I knew nothing about Brooklyn when I moved here, it's pure luck I landed there. I, erm, I had to move quite quickly when I moved to New York." A raised eyebrow and expression that seemed to want to know more, though Brandon seemed quite taciturn when he wasn't singing. "I split up with last my partner rather awkwardly and had to leave our apartment in a hurry. It was messy. Moira was a real life saver. My relationship was over, my band was crumbling - she told me to just put my stuff in my car and move to New York."

"Had you known each other long?"

"A couple of years, but we'd only met once, when Your Silent Face were on tour. I knew her from the internet, mostly," I explained. Brandon snorted, and I wavered. "Do you think I'm crazy, moving across country to move in with someone you've met only once? I guess it sounds nuts when you put it that way. But I believe in fate, and me and Moira were fate."

"Well..." he drawled. "When something's right, you tend to know it pretty quick." He sipped his whisky, then noticed that his cigar had gone out. "Their loss is our gain, I guess."

As he looked around for a lighter, I tried to process what he had just said. Their gain... did that mean I was in the band? "I'm really grateful to her for giving me a chance. It really worked out for us." Please, Brandon, give me that same chance.

"She's a lucky girl."

"Nah, I'm the lucky girl." 

A whisper of what looked like pain drifted across his face. "Where's that confounded lighter got to?"

"Hang on." Digging in my jacket pocket, I found a book of matches, and cupped my hands around his cigar end as I lit it for him. "There you go."

"Do you like cigars, Charley?" There was a sparkle in his soft brown eyes as he proffered it towards me. I felt it would be rude to refuse, and took a drag, holding the smoke in my mouth. It was quite nice, actually, not at all like the sharp acrid tang of a cigarette. "Yeah, I figured."

The head-rush filled me with enough boldness to ask. "Does this mean I'm in the band, then?"

He shrugged and took the cigar back from me, placing it in his mouth, not seeming to notice my saliva gleaming slightly on the end of it. "It's there if you want it, Charley. Question is, do you want it?"

I stared back at him, feeling electricity crackling between us as we watched each other carefully. Was this really such a great idea, joining a band with a man whose gaze made all the hairs on the back of my neck stand up like this? This wasn't even flirtation, wasn't the conscious decision of fancying someone, this was some kind of animal growl, down in my loins, saying _want this, now_. But it was clear from the way he hung back, his body arched away from me, tensed as if getting ready to run, that he didn't feel the same way about me. Could I take this feeling, channel it, turn it into simmering musical chemistry without getting my heart mangled in the process?

Oh, fucking stop it. Don't be such a girl, Charley. Your heart is not everything. Use your head. You have wanted to be in a band, a real rock band, since you were 9 years old and first saw Duran Duran on the television, like an exotic travelogue of a place you knew you belonged in, and would travel to some day. Do not throw that away over some momentary twitch in your genitals.

"I want it," I told Brandon carefully, in a low voice, without taking my eyes from his. "I want it more than I have wanted anything else in my entire life. You know I'm the right guitarist for your band, and I know that you can make this happen. Let's do this."

He smiled and transferred his cigar to the whisky-holding hand, then extended his free hand to shake mine. "You're hired. Josh wouldn't speak to me for a month if I didn't hire you. Now let's eat, I'm starved."

I took the proffered hand, and a shock of static electricity made me release his handshake a little too quickly. He winced and pulled back, eyeing me a little suspiciously from under his hair, so I apologised. "Ow, guess we gotta watch the carpet in here."

Brandon made a face as he looked down at the floor. There was no carpet, just very expensive looking bare wood planks, highly polished to a matt sheen. "It's probably me," he apologised. "Some of these old suits are a crazy static magnet with the nylon linings."

"I like old suits, though. Yours is very elegant," I told him as we wandered through, back towards the table where Paul and Jacinta were setting out dishes of food.

"I like yours, too," he countered, his eyes sliding up and down my clothes appreciatively. Dammit, why couldn't that have been lust curling his lips instead of appreciation for good tailoring?

"We were never close if the truth were known, all we ever shared was a taste in clothes," I quoted, resisting the urge to burst into song.

Brandon just smiled wryly, but Paul's head whipped around like a dog picking up a scent. "Be still my beating heart. She quotes Lloyd Cole at dinner parties?" 

"The Lloyd is very close to my heart," I insisted, holding my hand to my chest.

He could seemingly not resist breaking into the tune, though his voice was far too show-offy to do justice to The Lloyd's gentle tune. "And in a rented room coloured deepest blue, I suppose we found some kind of happiness..."

"To fill the emptiness," I completed. "That's my favourite bit. It's that final flippant phrase, almost an afterthought, that makes the song, completely turning around the meaning of the lyric."

"I love Lloyd Cole and the Commotions so much I just instantly love anyone who loves them. It was one of the first things I bonded over with Daniel when I joined his band. He is, like, the patron saint of intellectual English dudes who wash up in New York, so he's close to both our hearts," Paul confessed, looking at me almost soppily, in a way that made me feel slightly concerned for his partner, but she seemed to just roll her eyes and ignore his blatant flirtation. 

"Are you from England?" I asked, surprised. "You don't sound English."

"I was born there, but I wouldn't say I was _from_ there. I don't really feel like I'm from anywhere. Lived on three continents by the time I was ten. I'm from everywhere, and nowhere, babe." His voice was light, flirtatious, almost joking, but his eyes belied his jolly tone, looking almost infinitely sad, two deep blue wells of loneliness I couldn't even see the bottom of. As I struggled for something to say, he took a sip of his drink, then blinked, smiled, and the expression was gone as he flipped the conversation back to our previous topic. "Do you rate his solo work, though? The Lloyd, that is?"

"I like his first solo album, the one with Robert Quine on guitar. Robert Quine is one of my all-time favourite guitarists, so understated and yet so powerful," I confessed, trying to keep the conversation on the music. Jacinta might not mind the flirting, but Moira was staring daggers at me, moving back towards us with a displeased expression.

"Me, too," Paul gushed. "Sit next to me, we'll talk... Brandon, I'm sorry, I'm totally stealing her off you for my solo album." Taking me gently but insistently by the elbow, he guided me to sit beside him at the table. I looked around helplessly, trying to spot Brandon, but he had gone to refill his whisky or dispose of his cigar butt or something. Alyssa was already sitting on his other side, so Moira quickly slid in beside me, trying desperately to work her way into our conversation.

"I can totally hear Robert Quine in your guitar work, Paul," she interrupted. "People often say you rip off Joy Division, but it always sounded more like Quine to me."

I could see that provoke an uncomfortable twitch in Paul's face, but he smiled politely and tried to be pleasant despite her tactlessness. "Well, Bernard Sumner was a huge influence on my playing, it's true," he told her graciously, then turned back towards me. "But come on, Charley. You seem like a girl who could almost be a character from a Lloyd Cole song."

Paul somehow hit on one of the few compliments that could actually make me smile and blush with genuine pleasure. "I think that's one of the sweetest things anyone's ever said about me. But that's one of the things I always appreciated most about The Lloyd. He has that rare gift, he's a man who could write utterly convincing female characters."

"Which one is your favourite? No, don't say, let me guess... Looking like a born-again, living like a heretic, listening to Arthur Lee records, making all your friends feel so guilty about their cynicism..."

I laughed at how accurately he copied the phrasing off the song, but shook my head. "Nope. I neither read Norman Mailer or need a new tailor." I felt immune to his showing off, but Moira was swooning, and grabbing at my arm again.

"How about... you came driving back to town in a beat-up Grace Kelly car, looking like a friend of Truman Capote, looking exactly like you... are." He shook his head as his voice swooped to a baritone to finish the line. "Nah, that doesn't seem like you, either, that seems more like your girlfriend there." He craned his head to wink at Moira, who simpered like a schoolgirl. Moira, who I had seen give a fire-breathing dressing-down to the music editor of Rolling Stone over the telephone. Simpered. What was it with this guy? "I give up, you tell me."

"Oh, isn't it obvious? Jody wears a hat although it hasn't rained for six days. She says a girl needs a gun these days on account of all the rattlesnakes..." I sung.

He harmonised sweetly underneath me on the chorus. "She looks like Eva Marie-Saint in On The Waterfront, as she reads Simone de Beauvoir in her American circumstance. Her heart, heart's like crazy baby, upside down and back to front, she says, ooh, it's so hard to love when love was your great disappointment..."

That got Jacinta's attention. "Paul, can you help me lift this casserole dish out of the oven?" she called from the kitchen, and he swung up out of his chair and walked off to help her.

"I hate you," Moira whispered in my ear, though she was giggling as she said it.

"Just relax," I told her, patting her gently on the green silk of her dress. It was unlike her to be so rattled by a dude.

Brandon reappeared and sat down on the other side of Moira, and Josh sat opposite him, completing the party. "I'm warning you now, you should not get him started on 80s indie. If you bring up..." Josh lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper "...The Cure, then we're all doomed."

"That's a shame, I was going to ask him to sing the greatest hits of Echo and the Bunnymen next," I quipped.

"So bring on the dancing horses, headless and all alone..." came the refrain from the kitchen as Paul dashed to deliver a steaming hot casserole to the table.

"The chilli in the casserole is vegan," Alyssa explained. "But there's barbecued pork for anyone that wants it."

"Right. Who wants red, and who wants white?" demanded Paul, swooping back to the table with a bottle of wine in each hand. Wine on top of vodka did not seem like a good idea, but he refused to leave our glasses unfilled.

"Just as long as you don't start fucking singing again... can we put the stereo back on?" Josh moaned, though his wide grin made it clear he was half joking.

"But he's the voice of a generation, according to the Village Voice," Moira protested. In fact, she might have written the review herself, but I wasn't going to bring that up. Paul nodded proudly and grinned, and it looked like the earlier bit of tactlessness had been forgiven, but Josh rolled his eyes.

"You wouldn't say that if you'd spent six months on tour with him, hearing him warming up in the fucking toilet of the tourbus..." Josh teased. "Like fucking cats."

"You take that back or you can kiss your tour with us goodbye," Paul mock threatened.

"Right, that's it, I'm putting on a record," Brandon interrupted, standing up and walking over to a beautifully minimalist stereo and riffling through the vinyl next to it.

"Not that terrible heavy metal shit you put on last time," Jacinta protested.

"That wasn't terrible shit, that was Black Sabbath," Brandon grumbled, pulling some vinyl out of its sleeve.

"Like she said, terrible shit," agreed Alyssa.

"Sabbath is hardly shit," I found myself disagreeing. "And if you're talking about the first, self-titled album, it's barely metal. It's classic acid rock, and it's fucking brilliant."

"Yes! Thank you!" Josh picked up his wineglass and clinked it against mine.

"There's nothing wrong with metal," Brandon insisted, even as he reluctantly put on a Can record instead.

"Oh, there's nothing wrong with metal," I agreed. "There's lots of metal I like. Black Sabbath, Motorhead, AC/DC - it's just the stuff with silly histrionic vocals, like Iron Maiden or Judas Priest, that I object to."

Brandon returned to the table and sat quietly at his spot, bending forward to look towards me, past Moira. "You said that you had a shameful goth past, right? You said you could do Johnny Marr _and_ Daniel Ash, so you clearly like Bauhaus."

"Yeah, but..." I sputtered, then started to laugh. "Alright, you've caught me out."

"So you own records by, like, Siouxsie and Sisters of Mercy and Christian Death." The curve of his eyebrow was devastating, even as he was mocking me.

"Yes, I own records by all of them. Though I don't really go much past Only Theatre of Pain, with Christian Death, which is basically pop-punk."

"So you rate Roz Williams and Pete Murphy and Andrew Eldritch as singers..." He paused half a beat as I nodded and shrugged. "...but you think Iron Maiden and Judas Priest are histrionic and silly? I rest my case."

"Ah, curses, you got me there," I admitted, though if I'd had a bread roll to hand, I'd probably have thrown it at him. To my right, Paul had burst into song and was trying to sing Kick In The Eye against the backbeat of Can. "But what I listen to metal for is much more the sheer texture of it. It's the only other genre of rock that, like shoegaze, pays as much attention to the texture of the guitar as it does the riffing."

Brandon leaned forward, his attention focused on me, even as Moira was trying to look past me to sneak peaks at Paul, still singing away. "I'll make you a mixtape of shoegaze metal, if you like. Alcest and Jesu and Mutyumu and stuff like that. I think you might really dig it."

"I'd like that," I told him, leaning back to stare over the top of Moira's head. This was the oddest dinner party ever, with Moira and I both trying desperately to make conversation with the person on the other side of each other. In any sane world, we'd have just given up and swapped seats, but we stayed, caught like rabbits. I barely noticed the food, though it was delicious. The several glasses of wine, on top of the vodka I'd already drunk, had made it seem almost normal to be having dinner with a group of rock stars. And yet, somehow it was oddly normal. I don't know what I thought rock stars would discuss, but it was it was like dinner time conversation at my parents' house - politics, and debating if Obama was inspiring or disappointing, books and whether Malcolm Gladwell was a genius or a charlatan and possibly even a right-wing shrill, whether the latest exhibition of Peruvian Mummies at the MMA or the current exhibit of 20th Century abstract painters at the Guggenheim was any good. Had it not been for the occasional mention of seeing a friend's achingly hip band playing at the Williamsburg Music Hall, I could have been at home.

We finished our chilli, then we ate some kind of refreshing mango sorbet, then the party started to move slowly through into the living room area with the vague idea of watching a film.

I couldn't help it, the Midwesterner in me still tried to help clear up, even offering to do the dishes as Moira and Paul finally disappeared together, giggling, towards the record collection. But Jacinta waved me away and murmured something about a dishwasher. Brandon hung back and watched us as I attempted to help her load it, but she seemed vaguely annoyed at something.

"Can you be a darling and please go and tell Paul to put on some music more conducive to a party before he goes and fucking puts on Joy Division or something," she insisted, somewhat more sharply than necessary, and I was about to protest that I liked Joy Division just fine, when I realised she was speaking to Brandon and not me.

"For once, can you just not..." he started, then stopped midway through the sentence.

"What?" she demanded.

"Nothing," he shrugged and wandered off again.

I looked back and forth between them, wondering if I were just drunk or if the tension in the room had just doubled. "Can I make you a drink?" I offered, trying to appease her. "I imagine it must be really stressful being the host of such a perfect party. You spend so much time making sure everyone else has what they want that you can forget to enjoy yourself."

"Oh, you are a dear. A vodka tonic would be lovely." She smiled again, the sharp expression leaving her face as she smoothed down her glossy hair. When I looked at her closely, I realised she was actually incredibly beautiful, the kind of beautiful one expected of a rock star's girlfriend, with huge brown eyes, wide lips, and smooth, flawless tea-coloured skin, though maybe there was something slightly harried in her expression that had stopped me from noticing her beauty before. But perhaps that harried expression was part of being a rock star's girlfriend, too. "So you're Brandon's new guitarist. How are you finding it?"

"Well, I don't really know yet. I've only just done the audition." I poured two glasses of vodka, added dashes of mixer and passed one to her.

"What do you make of Brandon?" 

It was a perfectly reasonable question, but it made me want to blush, wondering if I was broadcasting my crush to everyone in the room. "He's been... lovely. They both have," I shrugged, hoping I sounded nonchalant.

"Lovely," she repeated. "Brandon." She snorted, then glanced around until she found a pack of cigarettes. She offered one to me, which I felt slightly guilty refusing, but she just shrugged and lit her own.

"Well..." I wasn't sure what was expected of me, but my main intention was denying that I had any feelings towards him at all, especially not tingly, electric crush feelings. "I suppose he's a bit standoffish and intense, but, you know, most artists and songwriters are."

"Just don't take it personally if he's rude to you," she warned, sucking on her cigarette, her eyes hard and glittering.

"No." I frowned, wondering what had provoked this, if it were advice or a warning.

"He can be a bit... short, with the people he cares about. He doesn't mean it, but it can sting. Still, speaking of being rude, we mustn't hang in out in the kitchen all night, must go and join the party." And with that the conversation was over, as she dismissed me with a nod and stalked back to the living room to find Paul.

Paul, however, wasn't in the living room, he had disappeared up to the roof with Moira, who had finally succeeded in getting him alone. I looked over at Jacinta, but she seemed nonplussed, flopping into a sofa with Alyssa. Well, if she doesn't mind, why should I mind, I thought to myself at first. But then it started to niggle at me. If Moira pulled anything seriously fangirly with him, well... I hated to think this way, but what if it reflected badly on me? I cast a helpless glance over at Brandon.

"What's on the roof? They've been up there an awfully long time," I mouthed at him, wondering if it was a bad idea to even draw attention to this in the first place.

Brandon looked suddenly grave and nodded, looking around for his coat. "Where's your jacket? I'll take you up and show you, if you like."

No one else moved, as Alyssa and Jacinta settled down to watch a video, and Josh sprawled opposite them, rolling what looked like the world's biggest joint. I was more tempted by the drugs, to be honest, but Brandon had found my parka and was holding it out towards me. But it wasn't until I was following him up a rickety iron fire escape that I realised I, too, was essentially dragging him off alone. When we reached the top, I saw Moira and Paul over on the other side of the building, laughing and giggling, but it was completely innocent. He was posing like a film star, blowing cigarette smoke into the night air, and she was taking photos of him with her iPhone, his hair lit up all golden by the street lamps. Satisfied that there was nothing untoward going on, I suddenly realised how silly it was to have gone up there, and turned to go back down, but Brandon had walked over to the opposite edge of the building, sitting on the edge of the parapet and staring off moodily towards the still-broken skyline of the financial district. He had pulled up the collar of his long, grey, military-style great coat, but he still looked cold, his shoulders hunched, his hands thrust deep into his pockets for warmth, though he was staring up at the sky. Thankful of the giant parka that had got me through Chicago winters, I walked over to him, pulling the hood up around my face.

"Does the skyline look weird to you these days?" I asked softly, hoping that Paul and Moira wouldn't hear us and come over. 

"Nah, not really. We'd barely just moved here when it happened. I only knew it from, like, postcards and picture views." He shifted, craning his head to scan the sky. "The night sky always looks weird to me in New York, though. That I can never get over."

I followed his gaze, looking up. "What night sky? It never seems to get really dark in New York. Even in the middle of the night, the sky doesn't get properly inky-black like it does in the country. It just goes this weird purple-orange colour. I miss the stars."

"I know. Me, too." He glanced towards me and smiled, then squinted back up at the heavens. "I remember what it was like, out in the desert, when you could see not just stars, but the whole Milky Way spread out before you."

"Christ, that sounds amazing. In Chicago you could just about make out Sirius, Ursa Major, Orion, but... It was a lot better out at my parents house."

Brandon studied me carefully, a smile dancing on his lips. "You're into stargazing, huh."

"When I was a kid, yeah, my Dad had a telescope we used to take up on the roof of the barn during warm summer nights. I started going up there to get out of the fucking heat, and ended up falling in love with astronomy."

His smiled warmed with a sweet sort of nostalgia. "That sounds amazing. Wish I could have seen that."

I tried to imagine Brandon Curtis, sitting up in the attic of my parents' barn, and just couldn't do it. It was weird enough, Brandon fucking Curtis just casually turning up at dinner. Luckily, he was distracted by the view and turned away before he could see me rolling my eyes and trying not to laugh at the absurdity of it.

He touched me on the elbow to try and turn me, then pointed off into the distance. "There's not a lot of cloud cover tonight. Look, you can just about see Venus rising tonight, that vague glimmer over Long Island."

"Where?" My eyesight wasn't as good as his, I couldn't spot it.

"There." He stepped closer, stretching his hand out in front of me to point his finger towards the planet. Christ, if he got any closer, we'd be embracing.

But then I saw it, glittering in the distance. "Ah, there she is, the Goddess of Love." I couldn't help it, thinking of Venus, I threw a glance back over my shoulder, wondering how Moira was getting on with her seduction plans for Paul. But no, they were still taking photos on the opposite side of the roof, Paul balanced up against a chimney so casually.

Brandon caught my backwards glance, and suddenly pulled away from me, thrusting his hands back into his pockets, like he was ashamed to be caught getting so close to me. "An inhospitable world of greenhouse gasses and acid rain," he sighed. "Not very lovely in the flesh, I suppose." He walked right up to the edge of the roof, and stared up at the faint outline of Orion. "Do you know what I like best about the stars? Looking at them, you're actually looking back in time. The brightest star in Orion is, like, 900 light years away. Which means the light that's reaching us now actually left the star somewhere around the time of the Norman Conquest. I always thought that was amazingly cool; didn't you?"

He sounded so like my father at that moment, the combination of quiet knowledge and thoughtful curiosity, that I felt a lump forming in my throat, homesickness coming on me almost like a dizzy spell. I had to turn away from him, and found myself watching the boyish enthusiasm with which Paul threw shapes for Moira. I frowned wistfully, wondering if I would ever feel that comfortable with my body to enjoy being photographed.

Noticing I'd gone quiet, Brandon turned back to me then followed my gaze. He shrugged, and offered, "I wouldn't worry about it. He's just playing."

"He's a bit of a show-off, isn't he?" I sighed. "He does lay on the flirting a bit thick."

"Paul?" Brandon's whole face lit up in a grin of devilish glee, but then relented as if realising he was being uncharitable towards his mate. "He can't help it. It's his nature. It makes him a good frontman."

"I don't know, I think I prefer a front person who doesn't give everything away." I thought, for a heart-aching second, of the good old days in Your Silent Face, when Alison had been a mesmerising figure at the front of the stage.

"So how do you rate me as a front person?" Brandon asked, with a mischievous expression.

I gulped, then took a deep breath. It helped that I was now quite drunk. "Look, I'm gonna come clean. I'm a big fan. I think you're... amazing as a performer."

"I know," Brandon chuckled, smiling at the horrified expression on my face. "Paul told me. After your audition."

"He promised me he wouldn't!" I protested, staring daggers at the man on the other side of the roof.

Brandon's face hardened again. "Don't always believe everything Paul tells you." With that he stood up and started walking across the roof. "We should go and rescue your girlfriend."

I was going to protest that Moira could take care of herself, but then I looked over and saw that Paul was hanging over her shoulder as she paged through the photos she had just taken and thought, well, actually, someone who was slightly more sober really should intrude before she got any ideas. I didn't even know Jacinta, but having eaten her food and drunk her wine, I felt some kind of loyalty towards her.

"Brandon!" Paul exclaimed, and left Moira's side to bounce over towards us and throw his arms around his friend drunkenly. "I know. Let's take photos of Brandon and his new guitarist. In fact, let's get Josh up here and take commemorative photos of the whole band. I want it documented that this happened, up here, on my goddamn roof. My legendary goddamn roof, as it shall be from now on."

I tried to protest, but Josh was fetched - and more importantly his drugs - and Moira rather unsteadily took photos of the three of us together, her delight at snapping what might well be a moment in rock history somewhat outweighing her irritation at being interrupted in her intimate tete a tete with Paul. And so the three of us, drunk, giddy and stoned stood, smoke curling round our heads, framed against the background of Manhattan, for our first group photo.

I don't really remember leaving the party, beyond having to peel Moira away from the apartment, reminding her that although she was now friends with the rock stars, she would probably stop being so if she moved into their sofa. Josh and Alyssa parted ways with us at the subway, walking off towards the West Village, while Brandon, Moira and I made our way towards the L train and Brooklyn. I remember sitting, the three of us, me with my arm protectively around Moira's shoulders because she was so drunk I was afraid she was going to throw up or pass out, trying desperately to keep her upright as she giggled in an almost incomprehensible Irish accent about how wonderful it all was. And Brandon perched opposite us, with that weird half-smile half-frown as he studied us, the only people in our half of the subway car.

"Are you going to be alright getting home?" he enquired, glancing at Moira.

"I'm sure we'll be fine."

"This train can get a bit weird late at night. I can ride the train out with you back to your neighbourhood and walk you home if it would make you more comfortable." In his Texan accent, it actually sounded quite gentlemanly, though from anyone else I'd have snorted at the blatancy of trying to invite yourself round the house of two very drunk girls. But Brandon just didn't give off that kind of vibe.

"Unless you can carry her for me, we'll be fine," I tossed back lightheartedly. "We've both ridden this train far later than this. We can take care of ourselves."

"I don't doubt you can," he shrugged, and lapsed back into silence as the train dipped under the river. "So I'll call you to sort out some kind of rehearsals," he offered as the train drew near to his stop.

"I'm available pretty much whenever - though don't call too early tomorrow morning, this one won't appreciate it." I shook Moira slightly to make sure she was still conscious, provoking a stream of insensate giggles.

"We could... well..." He looked at Moira then looked down at his scuffed cowboy boots, out of place in the rest of his outfit, yet still looking completely _him_. "We could get together, just you and me if you wanted me to teach you some of the older material. Or maybe you'd be happier learning it off records, I dunno." He shrugged and scratched his head, sending his hair cascading across one shoulder. I noticed in the harsh light of the subway carriage that his beard was starting to come in, dark against the pale skin of his face, and had to resist the urge to reach out and touch it.

Me and Brandon, alone at his studio, going over old songs. Pinch me, please. Wait, no, can you just pretend you're a professional, Charley? "Actually, I'd really like that. It'd be very helpful."

"Good. I'll see you soon, then." The doors opened and he propelled himself through them as quickly as he could, though as the train pulled out of the station, I saw him turn around, look desperately through the windows until he saw us, and then he smiled and waved. I raised my hand to wave back, but the train accelerated, and he was gone.

Moira jolted as if only just waking up. "Paul Banks," she informed me. "Paul fucking Banks."

"Yes," I agreed, though my head was full of Brandon.

"He is so beautiful I... I... I think I'm going to throw up."

"Can you please wait until we are at least out of the train? I do not want to smell that for the next four stations."

"OK," she agreed, and promptly collapsed in my lap, murmuring what I presumed were Interpol lyrics to my suit trousers.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charley sees a bit more of Brandon than she intends, when she goes round his studio for her first rehearsal, and the mystery deepens as to his personal life. Brandon, however, quickly shuts down any chance of her trying it on with him.
> 
> A reminder that all of this is FICTION, none of it happened like that.

The trudge from the L station back to Brandon's studio was just as long as I remembered, weaving in and out of the warehouses of Williamsburg, but at least it was familiar enough this time that I didn't have to keep taking my iPhone out every few minutes and checking the map. The train had come right away, and the walk had taken less time than I expected, so I was quite early, but then again, Brandon hadn't set a specific time, he just said, come round, first thing on Tuesday morning. So even though it wasn't yet 10, I made my way to the front door of the converted fire station and rang the bell.

At first there was no answer. I rang again, just in case it hadn't registered the first time, but I could hear a buzzing sound deep inside the building, so it was definitely working. I took out my phone and was about to ring when I finally heard footsteps echoing down the hallway, and then the door swung slowly inward to reveal a very sleepy looking Brandon peering out at me.

"Christ, you're an early bird." He stood back slightly, blinking at the daylight. Dressed in a pair of dark grey sweatpants that were a couple of sizes too big and a faded black t-shirt that was slightly too small, providing a tantalising glimpse of a pale, slightly hairy belly beneath, he looked like he'd just rolled out of bed, his hair a tangled mess where he'd clearly just been sleeping on it.

"I'm so sorry," I stuttered, trying not to stare at his bare skin, as he frowned and clutched at his shirt, trying to pull it down to cover the gap. "You did say to come first thing. I can... I can go away and get a cup of coffee or something..."

"Nah, it's fine." He yawned sleepily and stretched like a cat, his t-shirt riding back up his stomach, then he pushed his long hair out of his face, leaving half of it standing up in knotted peaks. "Come on in, I'll make you some coffee. Not even instant shit. I got real coffee for you." He gestured me to follow him. "You can leave your gear in the studio for now, but I gotta get some breakfast or something. Upstairs."

"Should I..." I ventured, but he beckoned me through a small door at the back as he disappeared up a flight of stairs. I shed my parka, draping it over the top of my guitar case, then followed him up.

"Come on up. Sorry for the mess, I thought I'd get a chance to clean up a bit before you came over, but... well." We emerged in a small kitchen, with an oversized table taking up much of the room. "Sorry, I'll try to make some space for you. I don't have guests very often. Well, not up here. Mostly just down in the studio." Fussing around the table, he swept a stack of newspapers and magazines off one of the chairs so that I could sit down.

I looked around, trying to get the measure of the man from his kitchen, but it just looked like any bachelor's flat, small, messy, the plain white walls turning yellow from smoke or the usual New York pollution. As he fussed with the coffeemaker, I dug through the stack of newspapers - the New York Times, mostly, with a scattering of magazines that surprised me. I'd been expecting Spin and Rolling Stone, but instead he had copies of the New Statesman, The Atlantic, Scientific American and ArtForum. Oh, and a couple of back issues of Fortean Times - that I'd been expecting. But the New Statesman? Articles about European economics? Something told me Brandon was not your ordinary rock star.

"How do you take it? Milk and sugar?"

"Do you have any soy milk?"

"Shit, no, sorry. I forgot you were vegan." He looked crestfallen as he turned back to me.

"It's OK, I'll take a dash of cow juice in coffee."

"Some vegan you are," he teased as he handed me my drink.

I just shrugged. "Yeah, well, I don't mind milk so much. It's cheese that really bothers me. I just don't like the idea of eating something rotten."

He smiled mischievously as brought his own drink back to the table, then realised there was nowhere left for him to sit in the midst of al his clutter. "Damn, let's go through." He gestured for me to follow him into another room, this one warmer, more intimate - a kind of studio apartment with a living space at one end, then a cave-like bed off at the other, half hidden behind several free-standing racks of clothes. Josh was right, he was a clothes horse. "You should never go to China, then. My brother lives there, he made me try this supposed delicacy called a Thousand Year Old Egg. It's basically a rotten fermented egg..."

"Gross! I don't want to hear. I find eggs disgusting enough when they're fresh."

"Once you get past the smell, it actually tastes OK," he insisted, chucking some books off the sofa so that we could both sit down. "Really sulphurous, though..."

"Your brother's in China?" I interrupted, desperately trying to change the subject as he was kind of grossing me out. "I thought your brother was the guitarist in School of Seven Bells."

His face instantly changed, a kind of wary expression twisting his expression into defensiveness at the mention of his brother's band. "I've got more than one brother."

I tried to shrug nonchalantly. "I didn't know."

"We come from a big family. There's six of us in all," Brandon tried to explain, rather too hastily.

"There's only me and my brother," I replied, trying to feel my way back to neutral territory. "We're not particularly close, though."

"Older or younger?"

"Younger. By about five years." And then we fell silent, sipping our coffee, having run out of things to say about our families. It still felt slightly tense, though, which I didn't like.

"Do you like... my brother's band?" he asked, abruptly.

I chewed my lip nervously, wondering how to be diplomatic, but then decided that honesty was the best policy. "I do, actually. Quite a lot. He's an immensely talented musician."

"He is that," Brandon conceded, blowing on his coffee to cool it, his face twisting with conflicted emotion. He couldn't still be bitter about his brother leaving, could he? Or was that jealousy? Or something else, some kind of weird sibling rivalry gone wrong? I wished I knew how to handle this. The two brothers had started the band together, nearly a decade ago, and moved to New York to pursue their shared dream - and done remarkably well, right up to the point where the younger brother had abruptly quit, in order to launch his own solo project. Which, at the time, had been represented as being a completely amicable split, but the way that Brandon was frowning now made me wonder if that was the whole truth.

I coughed nervously and tried to pick the conversation back up from where it had fallen. "He leaves pretty big boots to fill."

He smiled wryly. "I'm sure you're up to the job." But then he paused and turned his eyes towards me, full of that unreadable expression. "But thank you."

"For what?"

"For being honest with me. Don't even feel like you have to second guess my reactions or anything."

"Is there bad blood there or something?" I probed, wondering how far I dared take this line of questioning.

"There's family loyalty," Brandon snapped, shutting down the conversation as he turned away, glaring off into his bookshelves. "Look, do you mind if I take a shower? Will you be OK on your own for a few minutes? I won't be long."

"Fine. It's your place, you do what suits you."

"There's books, if you get bored or anything," he shrugged, indicating the bookshelf, then stalked off through another door.

For a moment, I stared after him, then as the hiss of water confirmed that he was indeed taking a shower, I looked down into the dregs of my coffee feeling like a complete idiot for pushing something he clearly didn't want to talk about. But then curiosity got the better of me, and I stood up to check out the bookshelves. It was a matter of habit really - meet a man, and the first thing I did was check out his bookshelves and his CD collection. I could still remember going round Chris's house for the first time. I'd dropped him off after rehearsal, and he'd invited me in under some pretext or other, nothing as flimsy as "coffee" but promising he was going to lend me an album or something. And I'd stood in his front room as he made cocktails for us, looking through all the big colour, glossy art books in his bookshelves, and thinking wow, this guy is really cool.

Brandon had a lot of full colour, glossy art tomes - Judd, Rothko, Ruscha, predictably - but the overburdened bookshelves were rammed with the most bizarre selection of books, jammed in according to no order that I could work out. Philosophy books were stuck in next to French fiction, Zizek jammed on top of Michel Houllebeq, lots of popular science books, psychology, there was a whole cache of books about neurochemistry and the brain - I was reassured by Oliver Sacks' book on the psychology of music, that I was at least dealing with a musician. Feynman lectures on physics stood next to Guy Debord's Society of the Spectacle, Marxist critiques of on economics jostled with books on the ethology of animals. I picked up a copy of Orhan Pamuk's My Name Is Red and flipped through the pages until I reached a dazzling passage on the history of Islamic miniature paintings, shot through with glittering musing on the meaning and purpose of art - and the book's binding was well-worn at that spot, as if he had read it over and over. Feeling slightly guilty at prying, even though I'd been invited to, I put it down and picked up another book called The Singing Neanderthals, about the origins of human speech in song. And then found a Bruce Chatwin travelogue about the Songlines of the Australian Dreamtime tucked in behind it. 

And then I went back to that awful Houllebeq book on top - I picked it up, wondering if it, too, would fall open at a beloved passage, and it was at that moment that Brandon emerged, dripping, from the bathroom, swathed in a couple of towels.

"Good choice," he muttered, nodding towards the book in my hand.

"It was a terrible book, I hated it," I confessed. Brandon turned back to me, curious, and I tried not to notice that his chest was bare beneath the towel draped around his neck, his wet hair, almost black, dripping into his face. "Complete misogynist dreck," I snorted, before I could think not to answer.

"Just because a book has a misogynist character, that doesn't make it a misogynist book," Brandon said, turning to look through his racks of clothes. Was he actually going to dress, right in front of me?

"I don't know how you can call a book where a woman is, quite literally, fucked to death at an orgy anything but misogynist," I tossed back.

Brandon looked at me with a very odd expression indeed, but said nothing. Shit, I'd been spending so much time around Moira recently that I'd almost forgotten. For fucks sake, I'd spent half my life being _one of the guys_ , I had to grasp for something quickly before he thought I was a prude - or worse, one of those angry feminists who hated sex and hated men and hated anything fun. I didn't hate fun, and I certainly didn't hate sex! I didn't even men, though recent experiences had certainly given me reason to.

I tried to lighten my voice, and smile to let him know I wasn't really scary. "I mean, if you're going to depict a woman being fucked to death, at least let her have a good time while doing it. Like Barbarella in the Orgasmatron - if I were going to die, that's the way I would want to go. She, at least, looked like she was having a grand old time of it." I tossed my hair and leered at him in what I hoped was an unthreatening manner.

"We're _all_ going to die," Brandon said quietly, then found a pair of trousers, a shirt and a jumper before disappearing back behind the racks of clothes to change. Wait - worse than thinking I might be a prude, did he now think I was a total letch now, because I loved Barbarella? Or had I really just been expecting him to disrobe in front of me? With every nerve in my body, I resisted the urge to peer around the corner and try to watch him. But instead I put down the offending book, and was about to make my way back to the safety of the sofa when I saw another book sitting on the arm of the chair, an envelope tucked into it like a makeshift bookmark.

My curiosity got the better of me, wanting to know whatever it was that he had been reading, not even in a creepy way, but just trying desperately to start a conversation with him that didn't go wrong. _The Gospel of St Thomas_. For real? I thought at first perhaps it was a science fiction with a provocatively religious sounding name, but a quick flip through it revealed that no, this was actually some kind of Bible, with the familiar Jesus and apostles that I remembered from childhood Sunday School. Hang on, though. St Thomas never wrote a gospel, though. I thought back to a prayer I'd learned in elementary school "Matthew, Mark, Luke and John, bless this bed that I lay on." There never was a gospel of St Thomas.

Brandon emerged, fully dressed, though his hair was still wet, and frowned at the book I was holding.

"Since when was there a Gospel of St Thomas?" I asked, trying to make a joke of it. "I'm dubious as to your theology right now, ha ha."

"It's part of The Apocrypha."

I looked at him blankly. Books on brain surgery and rocket science, I was fine with, but religion was an empty space in my knowledge since the age of about 14. "OK, I know the word apocryphal, meaning something that didn't actually happen but has been absorbed into the Canon, but The Apocrypha? Is that a book?"

"Not exactly. It took several hundred years from the death of Christ until the Church was properly established enough to dictate which accounts went into the Bible proper and which didn't. The ones that didn't pass the test - either because they were not authentic and written down too long after the fact, or because they were... politically inconvenient - they ended up passed down as the Apocrypha." His eyes lit up as he started to explain, possibly the most engaged I'd ever seen him - with the exception of when he talked about music. "Or not passed down, but buried in sealed jars in the desert for a couple of thousand years to be discovered by archeologists."

I flipped through the pages of the book, trying to make head or tail of the writing, as one side of the page was in English and the other side was in - I dunno, Aramaic or Greek or something. "So are you, like, super-religious or something, or are you just interested in archeology?" I blurted out, before realising how rude it sounded.

Brandon's face closed down like a book being snapped shut as the light went out of his eyes and they took on that careful guarded look again. "My father's a preacher," he told me curtly, taking the book from me and rather pointedly closing it and putting it back on top of the bookshelf, out of my reach.

I waited for an additional explanation - if he was indeed super-religious because of his father, or if, indeed, he was reading these extra, outcast books of the Bible as a form of rebellion against his upbringing, but none was forthcoming. As usual, I tried to make a joke of it, flip it into a pop culture reference, and softly sung "But the only one who could ever reach me, was the son of a preacher man..."

He smiled wryly at that, lifting the mat of his still-damp hair out of his face. "So you _can_ sing. That answers that question. Are you ready to go back down to the studio to get to work?"

"Do you really think you should go down in the cold studio with that wet hair?" I fussed, the words out of my mouth before I could think not to say them. "You'll catch your death of cold."

That made Brandon actually laugh, his whole face curling up in an adorable chipmunk smile. It was amazing how different he looked when he smiled, how he instantly went from intimidating to inviting. "Yes, Mom. I'll go make us some more warm drinks so we don't catch our deaths." As he returned, still smiling, bearing two more mugs of coffee, he studied me carefully as he settled into the sofa next to me. "So what do you read? Who's your favourite author?"

"Margaret Atwood," I didn't even have to think about that.

"Oryx and Crake, or The Handmaid's Tale?" he replied, without skipping a beat. So he knew some Atwood - that was a good sign.

"Actually, my favourite novel is one of the more naturalistic, but somehow stranger ones - The Robber Bride."

"The Robber Bride." He turned the name over in his mouth as if searching it for some hidden meaning. "I don't know it, I'll have to read it."

"You don't have to."

"It's a good way to get to know someone, to read their favourite book." A more open smile over the top of his coffee mug.

"What's yours, then?" I flipped back nervously, trying to pull some kind of rapport out that hesitant smile.

He looked thoughtful for a moment, then shrugged. "Maybe the Meditations, by Marcus Aurelius?"

"That's pretty heavy going," I observed, hoping my smile made it less of a challenge. "I mean, intellectually."

He challenged right back, his eyes flashing, like he was enjoying this conversation. "Some might say Atwood is a pretty heavy hitter, intellectually. I don't think my favourite book is any heavier than yours."

"It's not actually my favourite book, that would probably be The Dispossessed by Ursula Le Guin. Or maybe Parable of the Talents by Octavia Butler."

"I know the Butler, I don't know that Le Guin book, though."

"Wait, you've read Butler." I blinked and half expected him to disappear.

He shrugged as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "I was a major sci fi geek in high school. She won a Hugo Prize, I had to hunt her stuff down and read it. Parable of the Talents is one of the more... grim of her works."

"I know... I can't believe you've read it, though. That said, is that where you get the more dystopic aspects of your lyrics?"

"No, that just comes from living in Texas through the Reagan/Bush era," he snorted, but then a genuinely happy expression passed over his face as he expanded on his own work. "Though obviously science fiction gave me a lens to view it through - and a framework for expressing my anger."

"Your songs are so abstract I never know if they're personal or political sometimes."

"Thank you." He beamed as if I'd paid him a great compliment. "Though don't you feminists always say, the personal is political?"

I recoiled warily. "What makes you think I'm a feminist?"

He shrugged. "You've read loads of feminist science fiction - Le Guin, Butler, Atwood."

"I don't read _feminist_ science fiction, I just read science fiction. I'm not a feminist." Feminists were scary women who hated men and didn't shave their armpits. Well, no, I knew that wasn't true - Moira always said she was a feminist and she even owned high heels. I just didn't want Brandon to think I was one of _them_.

"That's a shame. Coz I'm one. I couldn't come from such a long line of strong Texan women without being one." I gave him the side-eye, and was about to protest that that was physically impossible, what with the whole dick-and-two-balls thing. But then he stood up and extended his hand towards me. "My coffee is finished and I reckon my hair is dry. Shall we go and play some music?"

"Yeah, OK." That was what I'd come round for, actually, not to sit and chat about his family and my favourite books. And yet, still, I had to fight the urge to try to pin him down on those strange curt answers that seemed to open up so many more questions than they ever resolved.

I followed him down to the studio, where he flipped on a couple of amps to warm up, then fiddled with a portable electric heater until some approximation of warmth radiated out into the room. I chose the same Orange I'd used before, and started to lay out my pedals when he crossed his arms defensively across his chest and stared at them.

"You don't need those today. I'm just going to show you the songs."

I bristled. "They're kind of integral to my whole playing style," I started to explain, but he cut me off.

"I know. But you don't need them right now. I just want to hear you play. And it's easier to teach you the songs without worrying about all that shit."

I decided to try another tack. "But the songs that you write - they are so dependent on sonic texture and effects processing that... playing without them, they're not going to be your songs."

He shook his head defiantly. "That's not true. A really good song - whether it's a folk song or a crazy out-there psychedelic spacerock song - it sounds right even when you're playing it just on an acoustic guitar."

"But I've got to learn the whole arrangement of effects sooner or later." This was turning into a battle of the wills. "These effects pedals, they're not just some accoutrements and embellishment, they're like a whole nother instrument on top of the guitar. I have to learn, from the bottom up, how that works with the song structure, or it's only halfway there."

Brandon grit his jaw, sucking his teeth at me, then shrugged and turned away, settling himself at his piano stool. "Suit yourself."

I smirked as I set up my pedals. So I'd won that round. It was important to establish those kinds of things, early in a band's life, what you'd compromise on, and what you wouldn't. I hated people who would come into a band and at first be all conciliatory and pretend like they were going to do things your way, then once you had dropped your guard, they came out as petty tyrants and tried to get their way in all sorts of passive aggressive bullshit. Better to come out guns blazing, and backtrack where needed.

I'd done my homework anyway, I'd already learned most of the first album off the record, playing along without my amp. The whole point was to try to put it together with the textures and effects and see what it sounded like, real loud, like I could never play in Moira's apartment for fear of disturbing our downstairs neighbour. Flicking the amp on, I started to adjust my distortion pedals, feeling my heart thrill as the overdrive bit.

Brandon watched, bemused, and ran his fingers back and forth over the keys of his keyboard, playing without sound. I got my pedals set up the way I wanted, then cast him a mischievous glance and started to play the main riff of Daddy's In The Doldrums, beefed up with exactly the right amount of distortion and phase. He smiled, clearly pleased despite himself, then turned on his keyboard. "Alright, let's do that one to warm up."

It felt good to play with him. Hell, it just felt good to play LOUD again, my guitar growling and coming alive in my hands, the sound leaping up out of the amp, that controlled chaos when I kept the overdrive just dialled up enough to be in constant thread of feeding back, pulling overtones and harmonics singing out of the riffs. And Brandon was smiling - I could tell he was pleased, even if he was trying to play it cool, bending down to the microphone to start singing the verse. It was hard, keeping the slow, rollicking blues tempo going without drums to guide me, but the two of us just locked together. I watched him like a hawk, watched his hands mostly, and his mouth as he sung, but also the heel of his boot as he tapped out the rhythm to himself.

Time stood still when we played. I knew the song was seven minutes long - maybe even longer, as we were playing it slower, more intense, more sultry, than the version I knew on the record. And yet that seven minutes went by in a flash - and yet also in a gilded eternity when time seemed to stretch out and elongate like I held the ends of the guitar phases, letting the amp whip the sound into the edge of feedback.

We flubbed the ending a bit, as he went to end abruptly on the downbeat where I carried on, wanting to fade out on the riff, but he smirked as he turned to me. "Alright, you got that one down pat. What else have you learned?"

"Well, actually I want your help with The Leaves Are Gone. I can't seem to get the accidentals on the volume swells. I wanted to ask you what the chords really were."

"Hang on..." He stood up and started rifling around in a stack of notebooks on top of one of the amps. "I think my brother did at one point tab that out, I'll see if I can find it." He grinned apologetically under his hair as he searched. "We haven't done that song in ages, but... might be good to dust it off again."

"I think that one might be my favourite song. I suppose it is really quite different to the rest of your material, but there's just something about. A sense of such beauty and melancholy. It makes me cry if it catches me in the wrong mood, but I love it so much."

He stopped his rifling for a moment and looked up at me, a smile of such genuine pleasure and pride that I almost didn't recognise him. "It does the same thing to me, to be honest, and I wrote it." But then he shrugged it off and went back to searching. "You might be able to hit the high harmonies, which my brother never could quite make... Ah, yes. Here it is. Careful with this, coz it's the only copy I got."

"I'll copy it into my notebook." I took the piece of paper from him, peering at the hastily scrawled notes, then started to finger them with my left hand. Putting the music on top of the amp, I switched off the distortion, reached for the volume knob and faded in the first chord. Yes, that was it. And little tiny shivers started to go down my spine as Brandon, who had somehow got his bass out while I was reading, started to thumb the bassline. We went round again, me trying to catch the rhythm of the song, and then he opened his mouth and started to sing. My eyes were locked on his, just watching for those tiny flickers in the muscles of his face and mouth that meant he was ready to go to the next chord, but he seemed to see right through me. I flubbed a couple of notes as I was too intent on the timing, but he just shook his head curtly and went on. Finally, he smiled wryly and stopped playing.

"Nah," he said, gesturing to all the blinking lights of my pedals. "Just turn all that shit off, I'll teach you."

This time, I did as I was told, feeling like I'd already proved my point, and moved closer, watching his fingers on the bass strings. He moved closer on the piano stool, even as I was sitting on the floor, until his knees were almost touching my nose. And as we played, I got it. As we swung into the last, instrumental verse of the song, I raised my voice to meet his for the wordless harmonies on "Aaah" and felt the song click into place. He smiled and nodded, lost in the music, this clear, tranquil expression passing over his face that I never saw unless he was playing.

"Let's do another," he sighed, putting his bass down and moving back to the electric piano. I moved closer and found a chair of my own so I could still watch his fingers, following his movements with my own.

It was such a weirdly intimate thing, making music with someone. There were some people I just clicked with instantly, like I could almost anticipate their movements better than they could, and there were some people who I had to get to know, really well, until I got to understand and grok their internal rhythms, and true, there were some people I could never seem to make it work with, no matter how many times we tried to play together. But playing with Brandon, it was very weird - like this strange double intimacy of knowing these songs so well, because I'd listened to them so many times, but also the way that we clicked together, and played off one another. I would push and he would pull, I'd dance towards him and he'd come up underneath me and touch my notes with his own, supporting me and moving against me, before pulling away and going chasing off on his own thing, leaving me laughing and running to catch up.

And this is going to sound creepy and weird, but I knew, just in that first hour or two of playing together, totally unguarded, exactly what it would be like to have sex with him. The playful confidence and mastery abruptly giving away to a kind of open vulnerability where I could rush in and take control, coaxing him back towards me. It was like making love, that first chilly afternoon, and all of the afternoons to come, sitting in that studio, just the two of us, facing each other across the electric piano, pushing and pulling this beautiful music between our fingers and mouths. I teased him, seeing what I could get away with - and I swear he teased me right back, arching an eyebrow just before he tried to trip me up, but he never could.

And yet it was that afternoon, watching his face twist in ecstasy and pain, listening to him breathe in order to tell when the next vocal would come in, imagining exactly what it would be like to naked in bed with him, sweating on top of me, his fair falling in his face as he bit his lip the exact way he bit his lip as he pulled off a difficult riff on the piano ...that he completely broke my heart and dashed my hopes.

We'd been playing for about three hours straight, when he insisted that we break for lunch. He took me upstairs, saying he'd make me baked beans on toast. And as he stood in front of the stove, stirring the pot, he'd stretched and twisted his arms above his head.

"Christ, I'm sore. I'm not used to playing this much," he complained as he rolled his shoulders back and forth. And then he froze.

I'd tried to come on to him in the most subtle way possible, I thought. I'd come up behind him and put my hands ever so gently on his shoulders and started to rub, like I could easily just shrug it off as a friendly massage if he didn't respond. "Man, you are really tense. You're all tied up in knots back here. Now just give me ten minutes alone with you, and we'll get you feeling all..."

"Charley." The way his slight Texan burr elongated my name made me go a little weak in the knees, but I smiled sweetly at him as he shrugged off my hands and turned around, putting his hands on my shoulders and looking across into my eyes. "Look, I don't know how to say this, but... Please. Just don't."

"What? It's just a little backrub," I protested, batting my eyelashes in what I hoped was an innocent way.

He just looked at me, his chest heaving as if he were struggling with something. "Look, I know you're probably just one of those girls who flirts with everyone because it's just your way of being friendly, but please. Don't do this. Not with me. It's not fair."

Conflicting emotions surged across my face. My first reaction was indignation - no, I was most certainly _not_ one of those stupid idiot girls who just flirt with everyone as a way of getting attention or whatever. I only flirted with people I was serious about. And then my heart fluttered and thank god it stopped me before the words reached my lips. Let him think that, because the alternative, of him actually getting a tiny glimpse of how much I was _into_ him, that could cost me my job in the band. So I bit my tongue, and I smiled like I was one of those girls and shrugged it off. "Sorry, habit, I guess. Didn't mean to upset you."

"I'm not upset." His voice quivered as he said it. "It's just... Too many wires get crossed that way. I don't want to fuck things up here, OK? The band is too important."

I shrugged again and wrinkled my nose. "I think the beans are burning."

"Shit!" Whirling around to face the stove again, he seized the pot off the hob, but it was already belching black smoke. Waving his hands around to try and disperse the smell, he thrust the whole thing into the sink and poured cold water onto it. I walked over to the window and opened it, relieved both by the blast of cold air in my face and the opportunity to swiftly change the subject. "Fuck, they've had it. I better unplug the toaster before I burn the damn house down... shit the fuse must have blown, it's not even on." As he pushed his hair out of his face, he surveyed the hopeless mess he'd made of our lunch, then turned back to me with a foolish grin. "Can I take you to lunch? There's a pretty decent diner just down the block."

"Yeah, OK."

And so we started a tradition, eating "Five-alarm" vegan chilli in a diner in Williamsburg and bullshitting about music, trying to come up with the most embarrassing records we owned - or could theoretically own - before walking back to his house and playing for another three or four hours.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: TW for attempted rape.
> 
> An evening in a rough bar leads to a frightening encounter between Charley and a dangerous admirer. But Charley proves she can handle herself (and Brandon proves he can handle Charley.)

We got together as a full band with Josh again that Friday. After two long sessions with Brandon, going through all the songs over and over again with a fine-toothed comb, I felt confident enough to tackle almost anything in their back catalogue again. But Josh was itching to work on the new material, and after running through a few of the old songs, he grinned and suggested that we move on to greener pastures.

And when the three of us stood opposite each other in the studio, me watching Josh and Josh watching Brandon and Brandon watching me, some kind of magic happened. I can't even tell you how it happens, how sometimes it is that three people playing instruments together just sounds like a discordant mess, and sometimes it somehow locks together, and the three parts intertwine into something amazing and new which is ultimately bigger than any of those individual bits on their own. That we fit together like clockwork, each of us swelling to take up the space that the other two left open - and yet, with all that noise, there was somehow never a superfluous note.

After the monumental ten-minute monster that had grown out of the Starship Trooper riff was over, the last epic chords fading into silence, we all looked at each other in slightly shell-shocked awe, then burst into laughter at the beauty of it all.

"We should book some gigs, man," Josh insisted, pointing a splintering drumstick at Brandon.

"We have some gigs," Brandon insisted, tucking his hair behind his ears as he frowned. "Have you forgotten the Interpol tour? That is why we're doing this, after all."

"Of course I hadn't forgotten," Josh shrugged. "I just thought we should play some warm-up gigs. You know, just around the Village, maybe in Brooklyn. Maybe even under an assumed name."

"Secret Secret Machines gigs," I giggled, feeling quite light-headed in a way that had more to do with the music than the spliff Josh had passed around after rehearsal. Brandon grinned like an evil elf and raised his eyebrows. But then it hit me. "So we really are going to be supporting Interpol on tour."

"Yup," replied Brandon patiently, moving scrawled lyric sheets about the top of his electric piano.

"When? That is..." I gulped nervously. "How long do we have?"

"Summer tour. Starts end of April, runs through until July."

The whole summer. I felt a slight breath of relief, as it was impossible to think of August with the icicles of January still hanging outside the windows. But then I started to count on my fingers. "Shit, that's only three and a bit months."

"If you can't learn our set in three and a half months, you totally suck," Josh laughed. 

I flipped him the bird. "Easy for you to say, you only play the drums. What I'm doing is six times more complicated."

"Ooh, ooh, them's fightin' words," Josh teased. "Gimmee that. I bet you five bucks I'm a better guitarist than you are a drummer."

"You're on," I said, shrugging off my guitar and handing it to him before making my way back behind the drumkit. What he didn't know was that Chris had kept his drums at our house and for the past two years, I'd been pounding them to work out my frustrations while he'd been at work. Shifting on the seat, I tried the massive kick-drum a couple of times to check the tension on the pedal, then started a drumroll.

Josh formed a chord on the fretboard, smiled proudly, then strummed, his smile changing to confusion at the discordant mess coming from the amp. "What the fuck, man?" He strummed another chord, but that was even nastier sounding.

"Sorry, did I not warm you I use an alternate tuning?" I teased before breaking into a lazy shuffling Can beat.

"Aw, you fucker," he swore, then broke into laughter, playing along on one string only. My jazzmaster looked like a toy, hanging on his giant frame. Brandon frowned, looking irritated at first, but then he gave up and started to play along. The magic was broken, though. We no longer sounded like a single entity playing with three pairs of hands, we just sounded like a bunch of kids making a godawful racket. I ended with a flourish, then held my arms up as a signal to stop, and laughing, we made our way back to our own instruments.

At the end of the evening, Brandon crossed his arms and stared at me as I started to pack up my gear again. I had it down to a science now, the order in which I unplugged all the cables first, coiled them and tied them up with little bits of velcro, boxed up all the pedals and packed them away in my bag. "You know," he suggested. "You don't have to cart all that stuff home with you every night. You can leave it here if you want to."

I stopped, and peered up at him, trying to work out if I trusted him enough to leave my gear at his place. I had another guitar - an acoustic - back at home, so it wasn't like I actually needed to carry all this stuff back and forth every time. It was only force of habit, and mistrust of shared rehearsal spaces, that made me do it. "Don't we share this space with other bands, though?"

"Only Interpol. And they're sound enough," Brandon assured me. "Even if they did borrow your stuff, they'd treat it with absolute respect and..."

"I don't want anyone touching my stuff," I snapped, perhaps a little bit too harshly. "Alright, sorry, but... well, you might know them, but I don't."

"Okaaaaayyy," Brandon drawled with a shrug, pushing his hair out of his face. "I could take the bag upstairs, no one would even know it was there."

I still glared at him. "I don't want you mucking about with them, either."

A slow smile spread over his face as if he were deeply amused by something in this request. "I wouldn't dream of it." He paused, before adding. "Not even to try synching your amazing tremolo machine to the LFO unit I've been building from a kit."

That caught my attention. "Your what?"

"You heard me." The sly smile on that smug bastard as he knew I wouldn't be able to resist.

Slowly, I removed the effects pedal from my bag. "Alright, you can give it a try, but if it sounds really cool, you've got to let me play with it on Monday."

"Deal," he said, taking the pedal from me as if he were cradling a baby.

I stood up and started looking for my coat, but Josh hovered by the door, looking up at me expectantly. "Hey Charley, you know, usually we go out after rehearsal, up to this old dive bar further down Bedford, go grab a couple of beers, shoot some pool. Do you want to come along?"

Brandon looked slightly embarrassed and rolled his eyes. "Don't be stupid. She won't want to do that."

"She might," I protested, looking back at him cautiously. Why didn't he want me coming along? Was it another of those guys-only things that I wasn't going to be allowed to go along to? I had to put a stop to that idea before going on a tour with six dudes and no other women.

"It's a real shithole," he explained apologetically. "Not the sort of place you'd take a lady."

"Good thing I'm not a lady," I snorted before turning back to Josh. "I'm in. But I warn you, I'm a dead-eye shot at pool."

"Ooh, you're on," Josh gloated, rubbing his hands together with glee. "Five bucks says I can take you."

"You still owe me five bucks coz you couldn't play my guitar," I reminded him, squabbling affectionately as we stumbled out into the cold, clear air of the night. But Brandon was still frowning as he locked up the gates of the studio behind us. "And ten bucks says I can take Curtis," I teased.

"I'm not a betting man," Brandon said quietly.

We walked for about twenty minutes along side-roads and back-streets I would never have been able to retrace, then Josh led us into a small, dimly lit bar of the legendary sort I didn't know even still existed in NYC. It was a long, narrow cave of a room with a low ceiling and a long row of stools in front of the bar, on which sat a series of scary looking men in various states of inebriation, all staring glassy-eyed at a television tuned inexplicably to a baseball game, though the season was long gone. But at the back, just as Josh had promised, there were two pool tables, one of which was unoccupied.

"Yes!" I cried. "Which of you two am I playing first? Or do you want to toss a coin for it? Winner get to play me, loser buys the first round."

Josh rolled his eyes and pulled a quarter out of his pocket. He rubbed it a couple of times, blew on it for luck, then flipped it and slammed it down on the back of his hand. "Heads or tails?" he asked Brandon, who frowned at it and shrugged.

"Tails."

Peeling back his fingers, Josh peered at the quarter, then swore. "Shit. You play, I better get the beers in."

"Come on, Curtis," I told my errant keyboard player, pushing him over towards the pool table before digging in my pocket to try to find change for the balls. Between the two of us, we found enough quarters, then selected our cues, and dug together in the depths of the machine for the balls. I laughed as our fingers touched around one of them, but Brandon snatched it away from me, winked, and tossed it in the air. "Can you juggle?" I teased, fishing another ball out and tossing to him. He caught it lightly, then picked a third ball off the table and started to spin them up into the air, his eyes twinkling as he kept them going for several minutes before tossing them back to the baize. "You're a man of many talents, Curtis," I flirted hopelessly as I lined the balls up in the rack.

"You don't know the half of it, _Charlotte_."

"Don't call me that."

"You keep calling me Curtis. I don't even know your surname."

I stared back at him for a moment, having forgotten that as much as I knew about him and his band and the bits of pieces of his life that I'd filtered through the music press, he knew nothing about me. "Wildwood. Charlotte Emily Jane Wildwood."

"Ha! Someone in your family's a Bronte fan," he observed as he lined up the ball to break the rack.

"My father's a professor of English." As he bent over the green, aiming his shot, I tried very hard not to stare at his ass, stuck up into the air like that, but he had an incredibly nice ass, slightly rounded and protruding, just like I liked. "It's how he ended up in Chicago. He was British originally."

It was my turn to bend over the game, sizing up the next shot with a practiced eye as Brandon watched me. "You don't have an accent."

"Why would I? I was born in Indiana." I sunk the shot easily and moved to the next one. "My Dad only has the barest trace of a Scottish accent now, it only really comes out when he's drunk. Speaking of which, where's Josh with our beers?"

"Here, here, here," Josh insisted, appearing behind me and handing me a bottle of Rolling Rock. I made a face but drank it anyway, and consequentially missed my next shot.

Brandon tried for the next ball, and missed badly, sending everything ricocheting across the table so violently that the men at the next table looked over. I let out a little whoop of victory and sunk the next shot. The men at the next table were interested in our game now, as the taller one, a skinny, slightly grizzled but still quite attractive biker looking dude in leather trousers leaned over and winked at me. "Hate to tell you, boy, but your girlfriend is kicking your ass."

"She's not my girlfriend," Brandon said patiently as I sunk another ball. This was going to be over soon if he didn't at least try to put some effort into it.

"Excuse me," I said in a low voice, looking at Brandon from under my eyelashes in a way I hoped said _I wish I were, though_ , as I tried to move past him to line up my next shot. He moved aside, but not quite enough for me to get past without brushing against him - though whether that was because he wanted my attention, or because he was trying to keep his body between me and the biker-dude, I couldn't quite tell.

Josh grinned madly as he sucked at his beer. "He's right, though. She is kicking your ass, Brandon."

"Maybe I'm letting her win?" he shrugged with a slightly evil smirk.

"Hey!" I snapped, and consequently missed the next shot.

Biker-dude moved over to stand next to Josh, and Brandon smirked at me, raising one eyebrow at me as he pushed back past me, still keeping his body between me and the new dude. "Can I play the winner?" Biker-dude asked with a sly, foxish smile as Brandon bent over the table.

"No way, man," Josh protested. "I'm playing the winner. We got money riding on this, I gotta claim my five bucks back off her."

"I'll play the winner of that game, then," Biker-dude conceded as he slid back to his own game.

"That'll be me," I boasted, winking at him as I sucked at my beer bottle. That certainly got his attention, as he winked back before sinking his own next shot. He was actually kinda cute in a weatherbeaten sort of way, with tousled, longish, sun-bleached hair and deep-set eyes, high cheekbones and a jawline that gave him a kind of pixie-ish air, despite the hard-ass attitude. And for fucks sake, the three months of celibacy I had endured since I'd moved to New York had to come to an end soon or I was going to go mad. I swallowed the rest of the beer quickly, feeling the warm fuzziness going straight to my head on an empty stomach, then remembered my game. "Curtis, you're just shit at this, aren't you? Never trust a piano player. All fingers, no arm technique at all."

Brandon smirked at me from under his hair as he looked up at me. "My finger technique is flawless, though."

Was that flirting? For a split second I hesitated, staring back at him, some retort forming on the edge of my tongue, but suddenly another beer appeared at my elbow. "For the pretty lady," insisted Biker-dude, and Brandon's face darkened.

"Thanks..." I started to reply, then noticed him give a beer each to my companions.

"Aw, no way, man, that's too kind," Josh said, clapping the newcomer on the back. "Let me get you the next one. We can't just let you buy us a round like..."

"It's OK," Biker-dude insisted. "I'm good friends with the owner. I get 'em for free."

"Well, thanks anyway." I grinned as I moved towards him, pushing my hip forward as I considered him. "What's your name?"

"Joel."

"Thanks, Joel." I clinked my bottle against his. "Though if you're mates with the owner, guess I'll have to remember to be nice to you."

He moved closer, mirroring my body by thrusting his own hip towards me. "How nice?"

I just laughed as Brandon called me over for my next turn. "Nice enough to let you play for a few turns before I kick your ass at pool, too," I teased, throwing a flirty glance over my shoulder.

Brandon moved towards me, bending over my shoulder as I lined up the next shot, to whisper in my ear. "What are you doing?"

"What does it look like I'm doing? Playing pool."

"I mean, are you sure you know what you're doing, flirting with that guy so heavily," he hissed.

I turned towards him, our cheeks so close, hovering over the baize as if we were discussing the shot, that I could easily have kissed him, though I didn't, I just scanned his eyes for any sign of jealousy. But they were clear, almost emotionless. It worried me, a man who could keep his eyes that emotionless. "I'm just playing. It's all part of the fun, it's understood, flirting with a man to make him feel good before you whoop his ass at pool. And even if I were serious..." I had been about to add _what business of it is yours?_ but this time Brandon's eyes flashed, not with jealousy, but with fear.

"Charley, this isn't Indiana, it's New York."

"I have lived in Chicago for the past ten years, you know," I retorted icily.

"You don't know this bar. He's not some hipster dressed like a gangster, he is the real thing. If he is close enough friends with the owner that he is drinking for free, he is definitely dirty - possibly even organised crime. Watch yourself, is all I'm saying. I know you're just playing, but he's not."

"You smoke too much pot, Brandon, it's making you paranoid," I snorted, turning away from him to sink my shot. I was done pandering to him, I was just going to beat him soundly now. "Besides, maybe I like it."

"I don't think you understand. That guy is _dangerous_."

I moved closer to him, getting right up in his face and looking him directly in the eye. "Why does anyone ever move to New York City, except because they actually want to meet dangerous people and have dangerous experiences?"

"Charley." Disappointment rang in his voice, though I couldn't tell why. It wasn't like he wanted me, so why was he making such a big deal of me being attracted to this cute stranger who was buying me drinks and making me feel like an actual woman again, with the way he kept turning around to check my ass and leer when I bent over.

"There, that's my last ball. Game over, you owe me ten dollars," I insisted, even as I went round the table, sinking the last of his balls.

"Alright." Sulking like a child, he reached for his wallet and peeled out a ten dollar bill, leaving it on the end of the pool table before he spun on his heels to go find the men's room.

"Right, now we'll see a proper game," Josh insisted, stepping forward and pulling out a fistful of quarters he'd got at the bar. "And after seeing you demolish Brandon, I warn you, I am not going to go easy on you."

"Hit me with your best shot."

Josh screwed up his face and started to sing in falsetto, playing air guitar on his pool cue. "Hit me with your best shot, fire away!"

"Aw yeah," echoed Joel from the next table. "Pat Benatar, awesome song." He moved closer to me, now that Brandon was gone. "Did anyone ever tell you, you look a bit like Pat Benatar... proper rock chick."

It was all I could do not to burst out laughing at how out of date this guy's sex symbols were, but actually it was kind of endearing after the up-to-the-minute pop culture references I normally heard, hanging round with Moira and her friends.

Joel looked at Josh slyly and half-shrugged. "Sorry, didn't mean to cut in..."

With a gesture so slight it might not have actually been conscious, Josh raised his left hand and glanced towards his wedding ring as he shook his head, then looked over at me, just checking in before returning my grin. "Nah, you go right ahead, Joel. In fact, I'd be grateful if you'd distract her for a moment."

Joel hopped up on the bench above our table, the game with his companion clearly over, though I hadn't actually seen who had won. That was bad. If I was going to play him for money, I should at least have got a glimpse of his playing style. But then again, perhaps I should just go for the 'flatter him and get him drunk' option, I thought to myself as I hopped up next to him, letting my knee knock casually against his.

When Brandon returned from the men's room, he had a face like a stormcloud, glowering at Joel and I as we sat together and flirted over another round of beer. Josh was actually beating me, but I'd stopped caring, as every time I hopped back up on the bench, Joel slid his arm a little further along the back of the chair above my shoulders. Any minute now, he was going to slide his hand down onto my shoulders and end up with his arm around me, it was the same script guys had been following since high school.

But as Josh and Brandon discussed the next shot, I suddenly felt Joel go off script. I had been expecting the slight pressure of his hand on my shoulders, or on the back of my neck. I had not been expecting his arm slipping down, across my neck, so that I was trapped, almost as if in a vice, and plunging into my open shirt as he grabbed at one of my breasts.

"Hey, watch it," I snapped, seizing his wrist with both hands and pulling it out of my shirt. "There's no need to get grabby."

"You're so skinny I just wanted to check you were all woman," he breathed heavily into one of my ears as I felt his hand trying to get back into my bra.

"I assure you, I am woman enough," I hissed back between gritted teeth. "But slow the fuck down."

His hand retreated back to my shoulder, and I released my jaw, though I didn't drop my guard. "Sorry. You're so pretty I just got carried away."

"Sorry, Charley, but you are so out of luck." Josh's voice dragged my attention back to the pool table, where he was steadily potting the last of the balls. "I think you'll find that I have won this round, and this..." He moved to the end of the table and picked up Brandon's ten dollar bill. "This is mine."

"Nope, put that down," Joel insisted as he peeled himself off me and took the cue from my hand. "I'm gonna win that money back for the little lady." Moving to the end of the table, he pulled out his own wallet, extracted a twenty dollar bill and laid it down where the other one had been. "It's the least I can do," he said softly, turning back to me with a stiff, slightly formal bow.

Alright, so maybe I'd been a bit hasty in my judgement of him. Brandon made his way over to my side of the table and sat down next to me on the bench, though he kept about 3 inches between his body and mine. For a terrible moment, I found myself actually wishing that Brandon would wrap his arm around me, press his body against mine and thrust his hand roughly down my shirt, taking my nipple between thumb and forefinger as he pulled my head towards his and kissed me. I wouldn't push Brandon off me if he did that, in fact, I might even take his other hand and push it between my legs. But Brandon, of course, would never do anything like that. I tried to drag my eyes away from his actual hands, clenched tightly around his beer bottle, and back to the game but his presence unnerved me. Would I ever get entirely used to him?

Josh and Joel were far more evenly matched, as their game progressed quickly, each of them circling the table like a pair of panthers. They were both so good it was actually thrilling to watch, and even Brandon got caught up in the excitement, as I heard him let out a long, low whistle of concern when Josh flubbed a shot. There were several nail-biting moments, but after a few more rounds, Joel cleared the table. I broke into wild applause, even as Joel grinned and took the money off the end of the pool table.

"Man, you are good, but that was pretty close," Josh insisted, finishing the bottle of beer he'd abandoned at the start of the round. "How about double or nothing on the next round?"

"No way, man, I won't take your money," Joel said, with a flatness that made me wonder if he was actually a pool shark. "Let me get you another round, though, coz that was a fucking great game."

But as Joel walked up to the bar, the bartender shook his head. "Sorry, Joel, we're out of bottles. I haven't had a chance to go back and replenish the stock."

"Never mind, I'll just go out back and get them for you," Joel offered, then winked at me as he passed by me. "Wanna give me a hand, little lady?"

Some instinct twinged in me, and at first I was going to demur, especially considering that he'd promised to win back my money, and I'd not seen a penny of it. But then Brandon laid his hand on my arm, and gave me such a paternal look of concern that something in me rebelled. "Sure thing," I said, against my better judgement, and hopped down off the bench and followed him out back into the storeroom.

As soon as I walked through the door, I felt someone grab me by the hand, pull me backwards and push me up against the wall. Joel, his eyes flashing not with desire, but with the same ruthless determination that had lit them as he beat Josh. And for a moment, fear curled in the pit of my stomach. But then he stopped, and smiled at me, and slowly, carefully, bent his head to mine and pressed his lips against my mouth. Aw, yeah. Kissing. I had forgotten kissing. Kissing was nice. In fact, kissing was awesome. I could really do with a couple of hours of kissing and maybe some heavy duty making out, as a prelude to... well, we would cross that bridge when we came to it.

Joel put his hands on my hips, and I tangled my fingers in his hair as I leaned into his embrace. But then I noticed that his hands were not staying on my hips, where I liked them, they were moving to the belt of my jeans and trying to unfasten it.

"Hey, watch it," I protested, trying to push his hands away. "What have I told you about getting grabby?"

He batted my hands away and pushed his knee between my thighs so that I was pinned against the wall. "I can feel the way you're kissing me. You totally want it."

I recoiled, clawing at his arms as he got my fly open and pushed one of his hands inside my panties. I was no longer turned on, I was no longer even drunk - I suddenly felt very awake, and very afraid. "Knock it off!" I insisted. "Maybe I want it, and maybe I don't but whatever I want, I want it slowly."

"Listen, don't play hard to get. I haven't got the time for this fucking romance bullshit. I want what you want, but I want it now." As his hand got between my legs, adrenaline surged in my veins. Right as he leaned back slightly to unfasten his leather trousers, I pushed him, hard, against the stomach, and he stumbled just enough for me to dart out from under him, though with his hand still inside my jeans, it was hard to move away from him. "What the fuck, bitch? Am I going to have to do this the hard way..." He jabbed his finger up inside me, but the pain spurred me to action as I wrenched his arm, pulling his hand up out of my jeans and pushing it away from me. Once he was untangled from me, I backed away from him, slowly, down the corridor.

It was then he made his worst mistake. He tried to rush me, and I saw his right arm coming for my throat. My old Judo master's voice echoed in my head, "Always let your opponent make the first move, that way you can use their strength against them." My childhood had been as tightly regulated as my father's classroom schedule - Cello lessons on Mondays and Thursdays, Judo on Tuesdays and Saturdays, swimming on Wednesdays and Fridays, and a long nature walk on Sunday afternoons.

As if in slow motion, I saw Joel's arm come towards my throat, so I quickly side-stepped out of his way, seized his wrist lightly, and used the force of his lunge to deflect him and throw him casually to the ground, as if I were flipping a burger. Joel grunted like a beast and tried to grab at me as he fell, so I jerked, felt his arm come slightly loose, and his grunt turned to a howl of pain as I twisted it behind his back.

"What were you saying about doing this the hard way?" I growled, feeling the anger rising in me faster than the fear.

"Ow! Bitch, what have you done to my arm. I'm a professional pool player, if you've fucked up my arm..."

"I've only dislocated it," I informed him, rather too politely to a man on whose back I was currently half-kneeling. "Don't make me break it. I will if you come after me. I'm getting up now. Stay here and count to fifty, then go out and call an ambulance after I'm gone."

"What have you fucking done to my arm?" he blubbed, despite the fact I'd just told him. 

Shaking my head, I climbed off him, and made my way quickly back out to the pool table, where Brandon and Josh were setting up another game. "Come on, we're leaving - now," I told them, grabbing my coat from the bench.

"What?" protested Josh. "But I just paid for another game..."

" _Now_." Something about the look in my face told Brandon I was serious, so he seized his coat and followed me. I was already halfway to the door, but Josh was somewhat slower, loathe as he was to leave his game unplayed.

As I reached the door, there was a weird scuffling noise at the back door, and Joel emerged from the back room, his face completely drained of colour, and his arm hanging at a weird, wrong-looking angle from his shoulder. "Stop them," he grunted, and at that moment, Josh finally sprung to action, following me to the door. "Stop them, Paulo! She broke my fucking arm, stop them!"

"It's only dislocated," I spat back. "Call a doctor and explain to them that you dislocated your arm when a girl pushed your fucking grabby hands out of her fucking panties!"

"Should I call the police?" stuttered Paulo, still too stunned to anything but look back and forth between Joel and us, even as we were wrestling with the door.

"No! You know the fucking house rules!" howled Joel. "No fucking police."

"Let's get out of here," Brandon insisted, by far the calmest of anyone in the room, even as he was pushing us out the door.

"Which way?" I blinked as I came out into the glare of the streetlights, though all of Brooklyn looked alike to me.

"Turn left," Brandon instructed. "Up towards Bushwick Avenue... oh shit! Run!"

I glanced back to see someone emerging from the bar, but I didn't wait around to see who it was. The adrenaline was still coursing through my system, and when Brandon said run, he didn't need to ask me twice. I ran, sprinting up the street with Brandon on my tail and Josh coming up behind us. As I reached the main road, I saw a cab go by with its light on, so I flagged it down. Brandon and I tumbled into the back seat, as Josh flung himself into the front and tried to catch his breath.

"Where to?" asked the cabbie, more bemused than anything else.

"Just drive," Brandon insisted, waving his hand in the direction the cab had been travelling. "Are you OK?" he asked, turning towards me as he realised I was trying to surreptitiously buckle the belt of my trousers.

"I'm mostly unhurt," I explained, though I was quite sure I'd have a bruise across my breast the next day. "But if you say _I told you so_ , I will fucking hit you."

"Yeah, I'd back off if I were you, Brandon, she can break a man's arm. Where the fuck did you learn to break a dude's arm, Charley?" Josh gasped, sounding more impressed than actually afraid.

"I studied martial arts from middle school on. I used to have a second degree black belt in Judo." As I explained it, I realised I was actually shaking, more from adrenaline than from fear, but as my teeth started chattering, Brandon looked at me carefully.

"Are you OK, really?" he asked, his soft brown eyes full of concern.

"I'm..." I didn't want to think about what had almost just happened. "I'm actually just really cold. I just need to warm up, please."

"Come here," Brandon directed, extending his arm and putting it round my shoulders, encircling me in his embrace, wrapping his military great coat around me to try and warm me up.

"Look, we just crossed Bedford, we're gonna run out of road soon, when we hit the waterfront," the cabbie growled. "Do you wanna tell me where we're going?"

"What's your address, Charley? We're gonna drop you at home," Brandon asked, and for once, I was glad of the slightly paternal tone to his voice.

"You don't have to, just pull over at the L stop over there, I can get home myself." The cabbie did as directed, and Josh got out and reached for my door handle, but Brandon stopped me as I started to climb out.

"No way. I'm not letting you go home by yourself," he insisted.

"I'm fine," I shrugged, despite the fact that I was very obviously and visibly not fine. Josh looked back and forth between the subway stop and the cab, clearly torn. I knew that he lived on Manhattan, and the idea of a trip out into deepest Brooklyn was not very appealing to him at this time of night, so I gestured for him to leave. "Look, you go home, it's fine. I guess Brandon just wants to be a knight in shining armour or something."

"Damn straight," Brandon muttered, but Josh's huge face appeared in the gap between the door and the car.

"Look, you take care of yourself, ya hear, karate kid?" he intoned solemnly.

"It was judo, not karate."

"Whatever." He slammed the door and was gone.

I told the cabbie my address and the car slid into the night, Brandon and I silent in the back seat, his arm still heavy around my shoulders, his chest warm and solid against my side. I stared out the window, disinclined to talk. Travelling in New York by car still fascinated me, how the different neighbourhoods that I knew only as clusters of shops around subway stations actually all joined up along the avenues. In almost no time at all, we reached my block - though I knew it took 20 minutes on the train. 

I told the cabbie to turn down the side street, then pull over. I dug in my pocket for money, but Brandon pushed my hand away and handed the guy a twenty. So that meant he wasn't going back to Williamsburg in the cab? He followed me out and stood beside me on the sidewalk.

"So this is where you live?" he asked, somewhat foolishly, staring up at the windows of the Asian grocery shop, covered with pictures advertising Tamil films, above which we lived.

"Uh, yeah." I hadn't thought this far ahead. And now Brandon was standing out in front of my apartment building, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his greatcoat, his face framed almost perfectly by his long brown hair as he observed me carefully. "Do you want to come up?" I asked cautiously, trying to read his grave expression.

To my surprise, he laughed. "Well, I was going to just walk you to your door, but..." Moving closer, he reached out and adjusted the collar of my parka, pulling out a bit of the hood that had got twisted, an oddly intimate gesture. "I'm sorry for laughing. It's so weird to see you looking a tiny bit afraid of me. Considering you have a black belt in judo, you just kicked my ass at pool... not to mention you suddenly turned around this afternoon and proved you can play drums better than most professional drummers I know... is there actually anything you possibly need me for? Is there anything you're not already... terrifyingly amazing at?" His mouth was smiling as he said it, but his eyes were still grave, almost fearful.

"Terrifyingly amazing." I turned the phrase over in my mouth, contemplating it from every angle. It was a perfect word for something that had haunted me since high school - the girl who was just so damned good at everything that she scared the shit out of every man within a ten mile radius of her. I was tempted to open my mouth and confess, there's one thing I can't do, I can't seem to make anyone fall in love with me. But would he view that as a come-on? A challenge or a threat? So instead I smiled breezily and shrugged. "I can't juggle, that's for sure."

He laughed at that, the tension broken.

"And I can't cook to save my life. I think that's why I'm a vegan - it's really hard to ruin, like, rice and beans." Digging in my pocket, I found my keys and turned towards the door.

"I'd like to come up," he said abruptly, so I smiled and unlocked the door, let him in, then lead him up the stairs.

I can't even explain how weird it was to have Brandon Curtis in my apartment, peering at the weird shit Moira had stuck to the walls - Satanic Britney on the fridge, Nickleback pinned to the bullseye of our dartboard with a couple of darts through their eyes, Katy Perry's face photoshopped into the centre of Whipped Cream and Other Delights.

"Do you want a drink?" I offered, feeling more than slightly awkward. "I could seriously do with a glass of wine - or something stronger. I might just break into Moira's Irish Whiskey supply."

"I see a coffeemaker. I could make you an Irish Coffee," he offered. "Though I'm not sure how that'll work with soy milk..."

"Oh god, I would love you forever if you could make a vegan Irish Coffee," I blurted out as I found him the coffeegrinder and the beans, but he beamed at the idea.

"Is that what it takes to make a girl love you forever. If only it were that simple all the time." He even knew how to use Moira's scary espresso maker, then warmed the Rice Dream on the stove, finally turning out two perfect cups of Irish Coffee.

I took my drink and sipped at it, feeling courage returning with my rising blood alcohol count. "That's perfect."

"Are you feeling any better now?" he asked, fussing like a mother hen.

"Much."

"Good."

I had to turn away from the intensity of his expression, digging in the cupboard for some sugar. When I turned back, Brandon had already wandered off, distracted by a bookshelf in the living room, full of books on cultural theory and 20th Century philosophy - Moira's books, I wanted to warn him, not mine. My books were mostly in my bedroom - and I really wanted to let him wander through my bookshelves like I'd wandered through his. I was about to suggest we go to my room when I remembered the Secret Machines poster hanging above my bed. That would be too fucking weird, I couldn't imagine what it would be like trying to have a conversation with someone, with your own airbrushed face hanging a few feet away from you. So I cleared my throat, moved away from the passage back to the bedrooms, and showed him into the living room.

"We should go through into here, I don't want to wake Moira up." Going over to the stereo, I put some gentle classical music on, knowing that it would mask the sound of our voices.

Brandon shifted uncomfortably, looked about the living room - the whole wall that was given over to racks and racks of CDs and Vinyl. Again, mostly Moira's, but her amazing record collection had been a huge part of the appeal of moving into this apartment. "You can always tell when somewhere is a... women's apartment. You have nice built-in bookshelves, and proper furniture, and actual curtains and everything," he observed. And for the first time, I saw our flat through someone else's eyes, and realised that despite the crummy location and the awkward layout, we had actually made a home of it.

"It's mostly Moira's stuff. I'd live like a monk if she didn't civilise me."

"You are such a boy," Brandon snorted, picking up a colour glossy Beatles book from the coffeetable and settling down into the sofa.

I frowned and sipped my coffee. He always had to remind me, didn't he? He didn't see me as a woman. He would never see me as a woman. Even though, here we were, in what would look to anyone else like a highly compromising situation, the two of us drinking liquor, at 3 in the morning, after having been invited up to a girl's apartment for "coffee" - he was never going to see me as anything other than one of the lads. I could go back into my room, and put on my laciest underwear, and the slightly padded push-up bra that actually made me look like I had breasts, and come back out and climb on top of him half-naked, and he would still see me as his guitarist, and nothing more. It just wasn't fair.

And then I let out a sigh that was probably a bit too loud because he turned to me, his big brown eyes shining with concern. "Are you OK? I mean, really?"

"That's the third time you've asked me. Do you think I'm one of those oracles that will somehow give a different, truer answer when asked for the last time?"

"I think you've had a drink and you might be more willing to be honest... even with yourself."

I closed my eyes and dug down inside myself, and thought about what had just happened. "You know, believe it or not, I am actually OK." I opened my eyes and looked back in his direction. "I guess maybe I'm surprised at how OK I feel. Like, my entire life, I've always been told, I have to watch what I do, watch what I wear, what I say, who I talk to, where I go, and at what time, because goddamn _rape_ is out there, like a patch of bad weather waiting to get me." He flinched at my actually using the word, but I ploughed on, unable to stop the flood of words I'd been holding back, now that I'd started. "We're told our whole lives, rape is literally the worst thing that can happen to you. And now it's happened..."

I let my hand flop lifelessly onto the sofa beside me as my voice trailed off, but he picked it up, gently, and started to stroke my palm, like you would to calm a child. "How do you feel?"

Turning my head, I stared off into the night outside and examined the weird mixture of emotions inside me. "Fearless."

"Fearless?" It sounded like it surprised him less than it surprised me.

"Yeah. Like, that's the worst thing that could possibly happen to me - some guy jumping out of the bushes - or a pool hall - and trying to rape me? And I survived it. I just want to say to life, now, well, what else have you got? Do you worst. I survived this. I can survive anything. You don't scare me any more."

He smiled gently, still running his finger back and forth my hand. "I can't imagine that anything scares you."

"Oh, I'm scared of some things, I assure you."

"Like what?" he probed, the corners of his mouth twitching up. "Spiders?"

"Nah, I'm OK with spiders. Spiders are cool. Though Moira makes me deal with them when they get in the house. I just get a glass and a sheet of paper and put them outside." Gently he released my hand and placed it back down on the cushion between us, patting it gently. Oh god, quick, think of something you're afraid of, to keep him talking. "Cockroaches, though. I fucking hate cockroaches."

"An unfortunate phobia in this city."

"And Mrs Gruber. I'm still, to this day, scared shitless of Mrs Gruber," I added.

"Who the fuck is Mrs Gruber. Do I even dare ask?"

"My cello teacher. She drilled those scales into me so damn hard I still have nightmares about playing and F scale and hitting a B natural instead of a B flat."

He looked at me in disbelief. "You play cello?"

"Well, played. I gave it up when I was like 18, 19, and went off to college and it just wasn't cool any more, and anyway, I discovered rock'n'roll so I got a guitar instead. But yeah. I played for 10 or 11 years or something."

"Would you ever play cello for us?" The light of excitement shining in his eyes was actually adorable. "Maybe not onstage, but in the studio or something? Though shit, it would be so cool to have a cellist onstage with us."

I shook my head mournfully. Who would have known, all those years ago, that the instrument might prove to be a bonus instead of an albatross draped round my neck. "Dude, I don't even have one any more."

A wistful smile tickled his lips. "We'll just have to see if we can't do something about that."

I just lay my head back against the cushions and studied him, listening to the gentle tinkling of Handel in the background. "Brandon," I whispered softly, not trusting my voice.

"What?" He turned his head towards me, his eyes expectant.

"Thank you for making sure that I was OK. I know I talk tough, but..."

He smiled and squeezed my hand gently. "I know you're just as tough as you talk. But it's OK to need someone to talk to sometimes, too. Even tough guys need that."

"I think I've had quite enough of tough guys for one evening, thanks."

"He wasn't that tough," Brandon snorted dismissively.

"What, after all the time you spent trying to convince me he was a crook?" It meant I was OK, if I was able to laugh about it now.

"Yeah, he's a hoodlum, but that doesn't make him tough," Brandon insisted. "Some fucking dirtbag who gets his kicks out of dominating and intimidating women? That's not tough, that's not what strength is. Does he think it makes him a big man or something? Fuck that. That's not what being a man is about." He sounded genuinely indignant on my behalf; it was oddly flattering.

I wanted to reach out and touch his face so badly, hovering only inches away from my own, leaning against the faded velvet of the sofa. "What _is_ being a man about?"

His eyes didn't leave mine. "Being a man? Being truly strong? Sometimes that means having the strength to exercise self control."

Self control. As he said those words, I let my hand slip back against the sofa and closed my eyes.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Brandon rebuffs Charley again, she is forced to go scrambling for answers from his friends - and, after an unexpected encounter, his family. And she finds out rather more secrets about his personal life, and his family history, than she bargained for.
> 
> In the meantime, Moira uses all of her wiles to get closer to Paul. But if what Charley learns is true, seducing Paul may be more easy - and more dangerous - than either of them realise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FICTION! THIS IS ALL FICTION! NONE OF IT HAPPENED LIKE THIS. NO DISRESPECT IS INTENDED TO THE CURTIS FAMILY OR THE DEHEZA FAMILY.

We must have fallen asleep at some point, because I was woken by Moira's shocked cry. "Oh sweet Jaysus, there's a man on the sofa!"

I looked up to see Moira running back into the kitchen in a flurry of salmon coloured silk. That was Moira for you - she hadn't had a boyfriend in a year and a half, either, but she still slept in lacy negligee every night, you know, just in case the building caught fire and she got rescued by a handsome fireman or something like that. Brandon's eyes snapped open, and he stared at her - of course he stared at her. In her silk negligee, Moira looked like an actual woman, all heaving creamy bosoms and long, wavy strawberry blond hair.

"Wow," said Brandon quietly as she disappeared back into her bedroom to find a robe. "You are so lucky..."

"Brandon." I couldn't keep the hurt out of my voice as I stared at him reproachfully.

"Oh my god, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that. I never..." Brandon flailed for words as he stretched, knocking a book off his lap. "Look, I should go."

"You don't have to..."

"I do. Shit! Is that the time? It's Interpol's day for the studio, I have to let Sam in to set up his drum kit..." He stumbled about my apartment for a minute, looking for the door, then abruptly he was gone. I wanted to go after him, fling myself down the stairs behind him, beg him to stay, doubtful that anyone in Interpol would get anywhere near a studio any time before noon, but Moira re-emerged from her bedroom wrapped in a bubblegum coloured robe.

"Where's Brandon gone?" She paused, looking around. "That was Brandon Curtis, in our living room, right?"

"It was," I sulked. "But you scared him off with your heaving bosoms."

"Well, if you'd just warned me that he was here, I'd have made sure they were covered up! For fucks sake, you don't normally give a hoot about my cleavage." But then she saw the forlorn expression on my face and realised now was not the time for joking. "Look. I am not the slightest bit interested in Brandon. He is not my type, at all. He's too scruffy and long-haired and... I like clean-cut blond boys."

"Men always like you better."

"They do? This is a surprise to me! Where are they, then? Hello? Men?" She opened the front door and called out down into the stairs. "Hoards of rapacious men, where are you?"

"Don't even joke about that. I got finger-banged against my will by a total fucking creep in a bar last night." I had almost forgotten about that part of the evening.

"Oh Jesus Christ, are you alright, Charley? I hope you kicked him in the balls."

"I dislocated his arm," I confessed, suddenly astonished at my own boldness, now I was sober, more or less.

"Now the truth comes out. It was clearly your Kung Fu that scared off Brandon, not my heaving bosoms."

"Judo," I sighed, long-sufferingly. "Not Karate, not Kung Fu. Judo. Why is that so hard for people to remember?"

"I'm sorry, I'm being facetious because I'm worried for you. I'm just glad you're alright." Moira walked over to me, still standing by the sofa, put her arms around my waist, which was about as high as she could reach, and hugged me tenderly. Except at that moment, as I looked over her shoulder and out the window, I saw a single solitary figure standing down on the sidewalk, staring up at our flat. For a second, I thought it was Brandon, so I raised my arm from Moira's shoulder and waved at him. But instead of waving back, the figure scowled, as if his heart was breaking, thrust his hands into the pockets of his greatcoat, and stalked off towards the subway. He probably hadn't even seen me. He had a habit of not doing that.

\-----

I got an email from Josh that afternoon. He sent his love and said he hoped I was alright - but then he went on to say that he had spoken to his wife. Apparently there was a Dojo out in Jackson Heights that had an all-woman class who met on Saturdays. His wife had been taking self defence classes out there, and said that they were looking for female trainers. I wrote back to Alyssa and the other email he'd given me, and explained that actually I wasn't that advanced - that a second degree black belt might sound pretty impressive, but there were in truth seven degrees all together. Almost immediately a woman from the Dojo emailed me to explain that didn't matter, they were just looking for female instructors to teach basic self defence - and casually invited me to stop by on Sunday afternoon if I was interested in continuing my own training. I thought about it for a minute, then thought about that creep Joel - how casually he had assaulted me, as if it were something he did all the time. And I might be able to handle myself in a situation like that, but what if it were Alyssa? What if it were Moira? I shivered at the thought, then wrote back that I would be delighted to accept both invitations.

And so over the next few months, I casually fell into a rhythm that made me feel as if I were finally settling in and becoming at home in New York City. On Mondays and Wednesdays, I went over to the Fire Station and played music with Brandon, then there was a full band rehearsal on Fridays. Tuesdays and Thursdays I went into Moira's office and fixed printers and upgraded email servers and did all the random IT jobs they couldn't justify paying a full-time IT manager to do. And then on Saturday afternoons, I took the subway out to Jackson Heights and taught nervous young women how to kick the shit out of men twice their size.

Slowly, for the first time, I found Alyssa treating me with grudging respect. It was odd, I never felt anything but total acceptance from Josh and Brandon and even Paul - I was part of the family as far a they were concerned. But the women - the WAGs as they joking called themselves - I still felt suspicion from them. Sure, they invited me to their parties, and once a month Moira and I dressed up and went round to Paul's rock star pad for their supper club. But at those parties, I always felt torn, like I was never sure if I should go over to the girly side of the room with Jacinta and Moira and Alyssa, or stay with the lads, as Brandon and Josh and Paul were far more likely to be discussing something that interested me - like what shitty Brooklyn indie band had just rated a 9.2 on Pitchfork, or which lighting engineer Interpol should hire to design the rig for their next tour, if they should stick with the guy they used last time, or audition the dude who had done Radiohead's stage set-up. And even though I wanted to be over with the girls, talking about the last Ryan Gosling film, or whether Lena Dunham was a total racist bitch or not, well that just wasn't as interesting to me as whether the new Orange amps were as good as their 70s counterparts.

But at the Dojo, slowly, Alyssa and I started to talk, tentatively at first, in the locker room after the lesson. And then one evening, after casually joking that I was so hungry I could eat a horse, Alyssa laughed, said "And here I've been busting my ass making vegan food for you and Jacinta when I could have just served you horse stew?" then invited me to go to a nearby pure vegetarian Indian restaurant with her.

"My husband has such a case of mentionitis with regards to you that I was starting to wonder if I should be concerned," she confessed over dosas. "But if you take your musicianship half as seriously as you take your martial arts, well, I can understand the admiration. You're a good teacher."

"Well, thank you," I stuttered, then blinked. Josh admired me? I blushed at the sentiment, though I couldn't stop the subconscious wish that Brandon shared it. "Well, your husband is quite simply the best drummer I've ever even _heard_ , let alone played with, so that's a huge compliment." She smiled as she daintily wrapped up a piece of paneer with dosa and swallowed it. "Mentionitis. That's such a great word, by the way. I might steal it from you."

She shook her head. "It's not mine. I'm a screenwriter so it's kind of my job to keep an ear out for neologisms. It helps to make dialogue more naturalistic."

I brightened. "So you're a writer! Fantastic. I love writers - Moira's a writer, as you probably know - I'm so terrible at writing I have complete admiration for anyone who can do it. But I love hanging out with writers - you lot are always so clever."

Alyssa rolled her eyes, but she seemed pleased at the compliment. "Well, I'm glad someone thinks so. I spend so much time fixing the scripts of complete idiots that I don't have much tolerance for the profession. Editors are the people that I have real respect for. But still... I think it's good when writers and musicians have relationships with one another. You both understand what it's like to work in the creative professions, but you don't end up stepping on one another's toes so much. At least, that's how Josh and I seem to get on."

"You guys just seem like the most adorably perfect couple. How long have you been together?" I actually liked hearing other people's love stories, bruised romantic that I was, under all the cynicism. It reminded me that there was hope, that things could still work out for some people.

"Seven years - married for four." She, too, glanced at her wedding ring as she said that, her gesture subconsciously echoing Josh's. It seemed inevitable, when people lived together, that they started to act and even look alike.

"How did you meet?" I was curious, upon meeting a native New Yorker, how people in New York City ever seemed to actually pair off, beyond the terrifying meat market singles scene I'd been too scared to venture into.

"In one of those dreadful all-night Williamsburg loft parties where everyone is a unemployed writer or an aspiring musician or an actor-out-of-work, and everyone all constantly trying to big themselves up endlessly. It was when Brandon was still courting Jacinta and I think she brought me along for backup, not realising how useless I'd be at the whole scene thing. I took one look at Josh - he was barbecuing spare ribs over an oil barrel fire on the roof, so resourceful - and I just thought to myself 'that's the kind of man I'd like to marry.' And so I did."

"That's so sweet," I laughed, as I could so easily picture Josh being able to produce a way of making food in almost any situation. But then something she had mentioned niggled at me until I turned it over in my memory. "Brandon... was courting Jacinta?"

"Oh god, yes. I suppose you wouldn't know. That was a slow-motion disaster for nearly two years. They were so poorly suited to one another."

Suddenly so many things seemed to slide into a different focus. "Did they actually date?"

"Yes. They even lived together for a while."

"How on earth did she end up with Paul, then?" It seemed inconceivable to me, that anyone could abandon the quiet, intense, yet steady Brandon for that preening, arrogant peacock.

"It's not what you're thinking, they had actually officially split up before Jacinta got together with Paul. But it was pretty obvious to everyone who saw them together that it was going to happen."

"Poor Brandon." I replayed in my head, the awkward silences and cut-off questions between them at the dinner parties. "And he... he still socialises with them? I can't imagine."

"It is to Brandon's great credit, that he has never held it against Paul. He has never let it affect their friendship. But... well. Josh was really there for him during the whole breakup, and he has not always been the easiest person to be around."

"But... it's _Paul_." I didn't mean the tone to sound as insulting as it probably came out. "I'm sorry... it's not that Paul isn't handsome, and charming - too charming if you ask me - it's just that every time I spent more than ten minutes talking to him, I just feel like I need a shower."

"He's not that bad!" Alyssa giggled. "Me almost thinks the lady protests too much."

"No, trust me on this one, my affections lie elsewhere," I confessed, hoping that I wasn't blushing too badly, or asking about Brandon's love life too obviously.

"Look, I know them both really well. And trust me, Paul and Jacinta are just much better... _suited_ to one another than Brandon ever was. They're happy, and that's what counts."

But what about Brandon? I wanted to protest. Does it bother you that he's so unhappy? But then I wondered if that were true. Brandon wore his heart close to his chest, but I had seen him happy. When he played music, he was happy. There were moments, when we were locked together in one groove, down in that sweaty box of a studio, my head bent over my strings, his head bent down so low to his keyboard that his forehead was almost touching the controls, that I would look up and meet his eyes, and see there reflected back at me, a look of such transcendent bliss that I almost thought him an angel, because a human man could not bear that kind of joy.

"Are you going to eat that?" Alyssa asked abruptly, pointing at a small tin pot of something on my tray.

"I don't know. What is it? Soup or something?" I peered at it suspiciously.

"No, it's dal, and if you don't want it, I'll have it."

"Go ahead, help yourself," I told her, pushing it towards her plate. It was the very least I owed her for that unexpected insight into the complex mystery that made up Brandon Curtis.

He still had feelings for her. It was obvious to me, from the way that he looked at her - and also from the way that he never actually talked about her. I mean, sure, Brandon wasn't exactly a gossip - not like Josh was, that was for sure - but he did occasionally casually bring up friends, people from the scene that we both knew. But he never so much as mentioned Jacinta to me, ever. And at the next dinner party, I watched them, watched the tension between the three of them that seemed so obvious I could not believe I had never noticed it until Alyssa pointed it out.

Paul, as usual, made a beeline for Moira. I wasn't sure how exactly they'd become such close friends, but Moira had certainly been cultivating the relationship. And Paul seemed to be one of those people that, while he claimed to disdain and be suspicious of flattery, somehow was completely entranced by it, when it was coming from a pretty girl. I had never responded to his flirtation - not even before I found out about the Paul - Jacinta - Brandon triangle - and he had quickly lost interest in me upon realising that his charm was ineffective on me. But Moira - under her compliments, he sparkled, and the pair of them fluffed up each others' egos in a way that had started to make me feel almost embarrassed to watch.

I stood at the giant French windows, cracked open for air now that it was spring and the weather was warmer, and tried to pretend I wasn't watching them out of the corner of my eye. Moira was sitting a bit too close to him, and reached out casually to touch a gold medallion he always wore around his neck. "The BVM," she laughed gaily, tracing it gently with her fingertips, as if she'd really like to be touching his skin that way.

"It's the Madonna and Child," Paul winced. He moved to take it from her, but his fingers touched hers and lingered there for a moment. "It was given to me... by someone pretty important to me, when my family were living in Mexico. I wear it to remember."

"To be sure," Moira agreed, holding his gaze like she held the pendant. "As if a good Catholic girl like me wouldn't recognise the Blessed Virgin Mary."

"You're Catholic." He looked surprised.

"Well," Moira hedged. "I was raised Catholic. I don't think I've believed in God since I was child, but in Belfast, being Catholic isn't something you can scrub off with a little matter like belief."

His eyes widened, as if considering something. "Do you hate me, then?"

"Lord, no, why would I hate a clever boy like you?" she teased, batting her eyelashes like a coquette.

He blushed and smiled, letting long blond lashes settle on his flushing cheeks for a moment. She really was just pushing all his buttons, wasn't she? Tell a man like that, that he was beautiful, and he wouldn't believe you. But tell him he's clever, and he's putty in your hands. "Because I'm British? Aren't the Irish all supposed to hate us? The Troubles, and all."

She just laughed and touched his pointed nose with the tip of her finger, as if admonishing a child. "This is the thing I find most bizarre about living in New York. Being compared to other 'Irish' people, and your expectations of them. See, to me, The Troubles were something that happened when I was a child. You might as well talk about Kajagoogoo and rah-rah skirts. In Belfast, we've had 10, 15 years of just getting on with it, since then. Old people remember, young people forget. But I come to New York, and people are still going on about it as if it happened yesterday."

Paul laughed, as if in recognition. "I suppose everyone does that. I must do it. My parents are Brits - so I talk to them about England, and all they remember is the 70s. So they tell me about blackouts - sorry, _powercuts_ as my Dad would say- and bin-men's strikes and shortages." It was funny, the way he had the faint echo of an English accent when he said English words. "And I go back there on tour, and it's all moved on! It's all modern! There's skyscrapers and high-speed trains and London is as advanced as New York - more advanced, in terms of some of the stuff you can buy there. Daniel buys all his clothes in Europe because the quality of the tailoring is so much better. People remember what they want to, to justify the choices that you've already made."

"So I suppose you regret it, leaving London, then," said Moira, her voice still light, joking, though his had taken on a darker tone.. "Spare me, from American anglophiles."

Paul shook his head sadly as he sipped his drink. "Nah, London's not my home, it's just somewhere I'm from."

"Is Mexico your true home, then," Moira suggested, picking up the medallion again and stroking it.

"Not even. The only place that's ever felt like home to me is New York City. Do you know why?" The nakedness of his need unsettled me, shining in his eyes, even from across the room. Moira shook her head without taking her artfully downturned eyes from his jewelery. "My tailor is from Hong Kong. The guy who runs my local coffeeshop, he's from Istanbul. Guy in the bodega where I buy my fags? Born in Honduras. The woman who cuts my hair is from Denver, Colorado, my best friend is from Texas, and the doorman of my building grew up in Nairobi. No one in New York is _from_ New York. No one belongs here, so that means everyone belongs here." He paused, shifting his weight to move even closer to her on the sofa, so that the chain on his necklace grew slack. "Even a mixed-up half-and-haaahlf like me."

Moving closer, echoing his body language with her own, Moira looked him straight in the eye. "You're an artist, Paul. A poet - and a good one. Artists create their own worlds, and define the choices they make in them. You can choose whether to leave or belong. You can be like James Joyce's Ulysses, on an odyssey of self-discovery, or..."

The mention of Joyce clearly tapped something in his memory. Paul winked at her without even breaking her gaze. "And you, all the time bending over me and gazing at me out of your quiet saintlike eyes..."

Deftly, Moira caught the mention and threw it right back at him. "You don't want to know what a good Irish girl can do with her hands."

At that moment, I cut in. I couldn't just stand there and watch Moira putting the moves on Paul, with his girlfriend standing only twenty feet away in the kitchen. I walked over to her casually, like I hadn't been eavesdropping on them, and flopped across the back of the sofa, draping my arms around her neck from behind. "Hey! Do you want another cocktail? Because I think I want another cocktail. Do you want a whisky sour or a Tom Collins?"

"Ooh!" Moira's eyes lit up, and she actually pulled back from Paul. There was only one thing that was actually more interesting to her than clean-cut blond boys, and that was booze. "I would love a whisky sour."

"Whisky sour sounds great." Paul flashed me a smile that probably worked on Moira, but made my blood run cold. "If I could get one too?"

"Come with me, help me make them," I implored Moira, and luckily she actually rose from the sofa and came over to the drinks cabinet with me. "Don't you think you're laying it on a bit thick," I asked, slightly less diplomatically than I'd intended, but Moira shrugged and found the shaker as she helped me make the drinks.

From across the room, I suddenly saw Brandon staring at us both. I smiled back at him, and gestured to the glasses, asking him if he wanted one, too, but he shook his head and looked away guiltily.

"You know, I think actually he's just lonely," Moira was explaining, with a handwave. For a second, I thought she meant Brandon, before I realised she was talking about Paul. "For a successful rock star, he seems strangely isolated. Maybe even intellectually starved. He doesn't have that many friends. At least, friends who understand where he's coming from."

"And you reckon you understand where he's coming from."

"He certainly seems to think so." Moira nodded decisively as she took two of the three glasses of whisky and headed right back to the spot on the sofa, moving even closer to Paul when she sat down. I took a deep breath, and frowned at them, though I had to raise my glass and smile when Paul turned to toast me, to thank me for the drink. But then I took a deep draught of the cocktail, and frowned harder, though really I didn't know exactly what I was frowning about.

I walked through into the kitchen area to see if Jacinta had noticed the intimate tete a tete on the sofa. But Jacinta just ignored them - though she was dominating Alyssa so much at that dinner party that I barely got to talk to my new friend. We smiled at each other disarmingly, and Alyssa tried to tempt me with some new vegetarian cuisine she'd been working on, but then Jacinta swooped down for a taste, and ended up diverting the conversation away from the safe topic of food, until I felt very much like a third wheel. Alyssa, now, did try to include me in the conversations, but Jacinta would still just talk over the top of me, about things I couldn't hope to keep up with, until I just gave up and sloped off to ask Josh if he'd heard the latest Gang Gang Dance album yet.

But Brandon watched Paul and Moira together, and his face darkened, occasionally throwing glances at Jacinta, but she avoided his gaze. And then sometimes he would look at me, with an almost unreadable expression, though he'd never meet my eyes if I caught him at it, blushing slightly and looking down at the floor.

In a way, I wished I didn't know, as the dinner parties had usually been something I'd enjoyed. But now I knew, and I couldn't help but watch Brandon and Jacinta and Paul absolutely failing to meet one another's eyes all night, I felt helpless and trapped. If Jacinta didn't care about Paul and Moira, why should I? But every now and then Jacina's gaze would fall on Moira, and her eyebrows would narrow with an almost predatory stare. But she said nothing, and I felt like I was watching some kind of disaster in slow motion that I was powerless to stop.

And so that night, for the first time, I made an excuse and left early, saying that I felt as if I were coming down with the flu, and really I ought to go before I infected everyone.

"Do you want me to go with you, sweetie?" Moira asked, with an expression that made it absolutely clear she really had no intention of doing so. She and Paul had curled up together on the end of the sofa in a way that made it look as if it'd be quite difficult for her to leave, his long, lean body physically blocking her exit.

"No, that's fine, darling, you stay and enjoy yourself," I assured her. We'd been watching marathons of Ab Fab recently and couldn't help but lapse into the 'sweetie, darlings' every time we talked to one another.

"I'll come with you." Brandon stood up, surprising me with the offer.

"You really don't have to, I'll be fine," I said, even as I secretly hoped that he would insist. It was absurd - I saw Brandon three days a week already, as it was, why would an extra half an hour on the subway make any difference?

"No, you don't look well, in fact you look quite peaked. I'll come with you. We can split a taxi, as we're both going to Brooklyn." He went off and found our coats, and that was the end of it. We said our goodbyes, then walked in silence down towards Delancey to try to find a cab, but it was Saturday night and the city was heaving.

"We don't have to get a cab," I protested. "I can take the subway."

Brandon turned to look at me, under the street lamp. "Are you actually ill, or is it something else? Nerves? Cold feet?" He took a breath like he was going to add another option, but just left his mouth hanging half open without saying it.

"Something else," I replied. I knew he was waiting for me to expand, but I could be cryptic as easily as he could.

"Ah, here's a cab. Finally." It was going the wrong way, but he flagged it down and got it to turn around to go back to Brooklyn, then told the driver my address.

"Is it just me," I finally broached. "Or was there a really weird atmosphere at the party tonight."

"No more weird than usual. We're a dysfunctional lot, as you know," Brandon shrugged. The cab made its way so quickly across the Williamsburg Bridge we were in Brooklyn before I even knew it. There was so little time I prayed we would get stuck in traffic on Broadway, even though I knew it would put the meter up.

"I don't know how to ask this, but... Paul." I still couldn't voice the question.

Brandon winced at his friend's name. "I know what you're going to ask, and the question is, do you trust Moira?"

"It's not Moira I'm worried about," I snapped. "How can he do that, in front of Jacinta?"

"Jacinta's as bad as him," he said, in a very low voice, looking out the window opposite. "They're two peas in a pod."

"What." I grew suddenly suspicious. "Are you just saying that... because..."

"Because Jacinta left me for Paul?" He met my eyes for that confession, though I could see it on his face that he had guessed I already knew. I nodded limply and shrugged. "No. I'm saying that because I know Jacinta and Paul better than I know anyone outside my own family. The question is, do you trust Moira?"

"I trust Moira more than anyone else in this damn city." I paused, then added. "I think." I realised that despite - or maybe because of Brandon's confession - that actually I trusted him.

"They have an open relationship," Brandon informed me, the deadness in his voice not quite passing for dispassionate. "Yes, he screws around with other people when he's on tour. And she screws around with other people while he's on tour." He gripped the handle of the taxicab door as the driver took a corner at speed. There was little traffic, we were already only a few minutes from my house.

"How do you know that?" I stuttered, wondering what he knew, and what he just believed because he so clearly wanted Jacinta back.

He raised his eyes and met mine with an expression that broke my heart. "Because I'm one of the people she's screwed around with."

"You..."

He must have seen the horror and surprise all over my face. "Yes. Me. See, I'm not the good guy you think I am."

"I never said..." I reached for his hand, but he pulled it away. 

"I told myself at the time, it was better me than some random person who would try to steal her away from Paul... but it was just a selfish lie. I'm not who you think, Charley, I'm a selfish asshole."

"Since you're able to admit that, I'm not so sure you're as bad as you think."

"You don't ever listen to my warnings. Why do you always try to see the good in people, until it's too late?"

"Because I think there is good in most people," I said quickly, but paused, so he might think what followed next was just comic timing. "Even you, Brandon."

We drove on in silence as the taxi reached my road and turned down, pulling up next to a fire hydrant opposite my house. I dug in my purse and found a twenty for him, but he wouldn't meet my eye. "Do you want to come up?"

I wasn't even sure what I was offering, but he turned to me with eyes that seemed to stare straight into my soul. "I want to. Right now, I want to, more than anything else on earth. But I'm not going to, because two wrongs don't make a right. What I'm tempted to do, I don't think it would make anything better, i think it would make things much, much worse."

"Brandon..." My voice quivered as I realised what he was suggesting. Was he saying that he actually wanted to fuck me, but only because he was angry at Paul and Jacinta?

"You talk to Moira tomorrow. And you feel free to tell her what I told you, if you think that will stop her from doing something completely fucking stupid."

I looked at him carefully, and decided that I would in no way tell Moira that Paul was in an open relationship, because, knowing Moira, that would only encourage her. But I only nodded, climbed out of the cab and closed the door. And as the cab drove away, I found myself wishing, hoping, that Brandon would change his mind. That he would come back upstairs and make love to me, even if it was only because he was angry at his best friend and his ex girlfriend, because that at least was better than nothing.

But instead, I climbed the stairs, poured myself a drink and made my way to my bedroom. And there, I peeled the bluetac off the wall, and took down my Secret Machines poster, and rolled it up, and put it on the top shelf of the cupboard, behind a box full of sexy underwear I'd bought in a more hopeful moment, but never had the courage to wear. I could no longer bear to look at Brandon as a flat, two-dimensional poster, he was far too complicated.

\-----

The freezing cold winds of March gave way to the thaw of April, and finally Brandon was confident enough in the way that we were sounding to book a warm-up gig, though it was still supposed to be a secret, playing under a fake name at a record shop cum bar on the main strip in Williamsburg. I knew I could play the songs in my sleep, but still I was nervous. This meant that it was real, if I was going to share my little private fantasy with other people. Moira begged me to let her leak the news on her website, but I told her that if so much as a word of gossip leaked onto the internet about the show, I would personally tell Paul that she had herpes, and crabs, and crabs with herpes, AIDS-crabs with herpes and weeping cold sores.

But she sulked so much, I finally threw her a bone and told her that she could have exclusive pictures, and indeed a leak of the news that I had officially joined the band, a full day before we planned to release the news to the music press. I knew how the incestuous world of the music press was - how they would rush to scoop one another's "exclusives" and nick stories off one another if they thought it was something not entirely widely known, when they would just ignore ordinary press releases.

A friend of Alyssa's took our photos, not outside against a plain white wall in the natural sunlight, like Your Silent Face had done during our one and only photoshoot, but in a proper studio, with a white paper backdrop and an actual stylist to fix our hair and poke at our blemishes with concealer.

I refused make-up, even as Brandon let her dust his face with powder to try and tone down the rough patches of his skin around his eyes. All three of us had decided to wear plain black suits and pointy cowboy boots, though Josh was wearing a dark red button-down shirt, I was wearing a green one, and Brandon was wearing royal blue. The stylist tried to persuade me to do something with my hair, to wear it up, fix it out of my face, but again I refused. All three of us wanted our long hair down, and brushed slightly forward to frame our faces. As I looked at us in the mirror, I suddenly realised. After spending so much time together, our styles had aligned. We looked like a band. When I saw the preliminary thumbnails halfway through the photoshoot, I knew we were on to something. Josh stood in the centre, a mountain of a man, with Brandon and I on either side, mirroring each other's body language like spooky twins, long dark hair and firmly set jaws, arms crossed across our chests, weight on one hip, our other legs splayed out, long and skinny and elegant, like some strange sigil against the white background. I didn't look like a girl, that was the most important thing. To my amazement, I actually looked like a young, elegant, and really rather pretty young man, like an escapee from the 1966 era Rolling Stones.

I walked all the way out to the one hipster cafe in our neighbourhood - almost on the border of Bushwick - to find an actual physical copy of the Village Voice, after Moira tipped me off that our photo would be in it. I think it was perhaps her way of trying to make it up to me, after that night of the party, when she hadn't turned up back at our apartment at 9 the next morning. She had never explained what had happened that night, I had never asked, we had just gone back to acting like everything was normal.

And now I was actually standing at the counter of a quirky-looking independent coffee bar, clutching the Village Voice under my arm, ordering my soy latte and a banana nut muffin, the guy at the counter blinked at me and asked "Don't I know you from somewhere?"

"Uh, I don't think so?" I certainly didn't go there anywhere near often enough to be considered a regular.

"No, I mean..." His eyes drifted down to the paper he had been reading before I walked in, and there, on the music news page, in stark black and white, were Brandon, Josh and I. "Isn't that you?"

"Yeah," I agreed, somewhat shamefacedly, as he put my coffee up on the counter.

"Don't worry, it's on the house," he told me proudly. "Hang on, let me clear off a table for you. I'll heat up the muffin for you and bring it out in a bit."

I stared at him in disbelief as he marched up to the table right in the front window, cleared it of debris, gave it a good scrub, then pulled out the chair for me. This was fucking weird - normally the staff in hipster cafes and bars wouldn't give me the time of day, but here I was getting gold star service and a free meal, toasted muffins and all? I smiled and thanked him, feeling rather exposed in the window - it wasn't somewhere I would ever have normally chosen to sit, preferring to lurk somewhere in the back from which I could see the door. But if they were going to give me free food, I supposed they got to show me off, like, look, here is the neighbourhood rock star, drinking coffee in the neighbourhood's only hipster cafe. The neighbourhood was clearly on the rise, and almost Bushwick, which was after all, almost Williamsburg. So I sat in the window, feeling really exposed and self conscious, drinking my free coffee, nibbling my muffin - they really were a lot better warmed up - and not actually reading the newspaper with my photo in it that I'd tucked into my record bag because I felt too self conscious about it.

And then one of my worst nightmares happened. A girl who was just riding by on a bicycle clocked me, stopped and got off her bicycle, caught my eye, then walked up to the window right in front of me and tapped on it, gesturing to me and waving. For a second, I panicked, thinking maybe it was someone I'd met at a party and completely forgotten, but no, she was a stranger to me, though her face looked hauntingly familiar. She was a small Latina woman, very skinny, with thick, shiny black hair and huge brown eyes like a startled faun. But she smiled as if she knew me and pointed to the door. I shook my head and shrugged, not understand what she was asking.

So she grabbed her bicycle by the handlebars, opened the door and wheeled her bike into the shop. "Sorry about the bicycle," she called out to the barista as she leant the bicycle - an old fashioned looking Pashley Princesss - against the counter. "I'm only going to leave it here a minute, don't let anyone touch it." And then she walked straight up to me. "Hi, You're Charlotte Wildwood, aren't you?"

I cringed. I was going to fucking kill Brandon for giving them my full name. "Charley," I corrected. "Not even my Mom calls me Charlotte."

She thrust her hand towards me, dripping with dozens of delicate gold and silver bangles. I really liked her style, those black clothes with all that hammered metal jewellery made her look a bit like a painting of an Inca princess I'd once seen in a book. "I'm Alley."

Recognition finally dawned. "Fuck," I ejected completely subconsciously as I took her proffered hand and shook it. "I meant... oh my god I'm sorry. Alley. Please, sit down. Can I buy you a cup of coffee?"

I stared at her as she sat down opposite me, her back very straight, her bearing quite regal as she turned and asked the barista, still guarding her bike, for a cup of spiced chocolate, no sugar. This was not any random hipster girl passing by on a bicycle. This was Alley, effectively Brandon's sister in law, the girl that his brother - the brother I was now replacing - had left their band for. "I haven't seen you here before," she ventured diplomatically. "Are you new to the neighbourhood?"

"Well, I've been here about six months now, but I live all the way at the other end of the neighbourhood - the not-cool part, up by Queens," I explained. "Do you live nearby?"

"Yeah, but we pretend it's Bushwick when anyone from the press asks," she laughed.

"I just came out here to pick up a paper - we don't get the Voice that far out..." My voice petered out as I realised how bad it sounded, walking this far just to get a picture of myself.

"I saw your photo in the Voice his morning," she winked, as I blushed. "It's a good picture. And I completely understand - the first time you see your band's photo in a real, live actual newspaper - that's a big moment. It's all, like... wow. This is really real now. It's in the paper. Like print makes something real, a historical document. I know newspapers are supposed to be considered so ephemeral, but compared to the internet, something that tangible seems somehow less transient."

"Of course," I agreed, feeling more than slightly intimidated, and I wasn't sure what else to say to her. I wondered if I should tell her that I loved her band, or if that would be too fucking weird. She was so cool, so easily elegant, I felt at the same time a desperate desire for her to like me, mixed with a babyish fear that I would never be intellectual enough for her.

But she spoke before I could, blurting out "This is completely weird, isn't it?"

"Yes, rather." I looked at her helplessly, and suddenly saw the fear and hopefulness mingled in her own eyes. "This is all so new to me. This is the first time I've ever got a cup of coffee for free, for no reason other than being _famous_ or whatever - and the first time anyone has ever recognised me from a photo in the paper and wandered in to speak to me - and it's you. It's a bit of a shock to the system."

The barista interrupted us by bringing over her cup of hot chocolate, nearly tripping over himself as he placed it before us. "Oh my god, the one day I don't bring my iPhone to work, the two hottest girls in indie rock are sitting in my coffeeshop."

I laughed awkwardly, even as Alley smiled and graciously blew him a kiss. Again, he refused my money, and in a minute I was afraid he'd ask her for an autograph. But she turned back to me with a kind smile once he was gone. "It gets weirder before life starts seeming normal again. Trust me."

"Yeah." I didn't think this would ever feel normal. "Look I..." I didn't quite know whether to say it or not, but I figured I couldn't be any more fannish than the barista. Maybe this would be awkward as fuck, but I had to say it. "I... I love your band," I confessed. "I think you're a brilliant guitarist and an amazing songwriter."

For a moment, I thought I'd blown it, but then the genuinely pleased expression that settled on her face convinced me I'd made the right decision. "You're really sweet. I haven't heard you yet, but if Josh rates you, I bet you're a brilliant guitarist, too." We smiled at one another awkwardly as she seemed to be screwing up her courage to ask something, too. "Look, this is a weird thing to ask, I know, but... I'd like to be friends with you. Is that weird? Is this too totally high school? To just go charging up to someone in a coffeeshop and ask, hey, will you be friends with me? But... Despite - or maybe because of - the whole thing with our bands, can _we_ be friends?" Leaning forward, she laid her tiny hand on top of my own.

I laughed, more through relief than anything else. Oh my god, the coolest girl in the whole school had just asked if _I_ wanted to be friends with _her_? She was an actual genuine _pop star._ Surely pop stars didn't have to ask if people would be their mate. They just walked into coffeeshops and people gave them everything for free. But for a moment I caught that odd look in her eyes again, and wondered if maybe that was why. I answered quickly, before she had the chance to change her mind. "Yes. Let's be friends. It'd be stupid not to, considering how close we live, and considering I only know, like, 4 people in New York, 2 of whom are actually in my band."

Alley cocked her head to one side, as if considering me. "Did you move to New York to join the band? That's really brave."

"Well, no, I moved to NYC to join a band. I found this band. Which is weird enough. But, like... I dunno. Brandon and I just clicked." I shrugged helplessly.

A shadow passed across her face at the mention of his name. Though she shrugged it off, her face remained cautious. "How is Brandon?"

"He's OK..." I shrugged. No, that wasn't all I had to say about him, especially to someone who must know him well. "Well, he's weird, he's moody, he's awkward sometimes, but he's also loyal, and thoughtful, and caring, and funny, and very, very loveable. I actually get along with him brilliantly. I love him." It was funny that I could tell that to a complete stranger, who would surely mistake my meaning, when I couldn't tell it to his face.

Emotion rippled across Alley's face. "I'm glad to hear he's doing well. And I'm glad that he's got good friends."

Suddenly I realised that I had misunderstood her question. She wasn't asking how I was finding him, she was asking how he _was_. "Hang on, how come you're finding out from me, how Brandon is?"

Her mouth twisted as her dark eyes grew oddly guarded. "See, Brandon and Benjamin... they don't... _talk_."

"They don't talk as in they don't ever talk about anything important, or they don't talk, as in, they don't speak to each other?" I asked, already knowing from the defensive way with which Brandon had asked how I felt about his brother's band, that she meant the latter.

"They live four subway stops away from each other, on the map, and they haven't seen each other in two years. Sure, we've both had tours and obligations and stuff going on, but... Benjamin and I go see their parents at Christmas, and Brandon goes to see them at Thanksgiving."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"Well, I can't say what Benjamin would say... But maybe Brandon should have been a little more careful what he said to the British press. We do read it here, after all, just a few months after the fact, as it was."

"Brandon," I sighed. That sounded so like him. A man so guarded with his friends, but could unintentionally spill his anger to the press, without even thinking he was doing anything but describing what his last record was about. "He can be an ass, can't he?"

"Yup," she agreed, in a tone that revealed she knew him maybe better than I did.

Despite the fact that they were already lukewarm, we both blew on our drinks as if to cool them, and sipped them contemplatively. An awkward silence descended across the table as Alley stared out across the small park opposite. She played with the shiny rings spangled across her fingers, picking one in particular up, twisting it round, turning it over and placing it back upside-down, before repeating the process. I couldn't help but stare at it, the way the swirls cut into the silver caught and refracted the light.

"That's a beautiful ring," I observed, just trying to break the chill that had descended across the table at the mention of my bandmate.

"Oh really? You like it? I got it in a junk shop in Brooklyn. It doesn't even fit me, but they're supposed to be a good luck symbol, those triple spirals."

"Triskeles," I agreed. "They're a Celtic charm." Where had I read about them recently? Oh, that was right. In a book on Irish mythology in Brandon's room.

Suddenly she seized the ring from off her finger and held it out to me. "You must have it."

"I couldn't possibly," I stuttered.

"I insist. It's an ancient tradition, an exchange of gifts to seal a new friendship. Please, take it, it will make me happy, knowing you have it."

I could see that she wasn't going to take no for an answer. "But I've got nothing to offer you in return."

"It doesn't matter, it's just a token. It's the thought that counts."

I dug in my pockets, but all I turned out was guitar picks and small change. In my bag, there was only my wallet and the copy of the newspaper. No, wait, there was a small blank notebook I'd bought at the Cloisters the week before, intending to write down the chords for all of the songs in one place, a beautiful notebook with a copy of the Book of Kells embossed on the cover all in gold. "Here, take this."

"It's beautiful," she agreed. She took it, then pushed the ring into my palm, momentarily holding her hand on top of mine. "Thank you, I will write beautiful lyrics in this, no doubt."

"I think I may have written my name and phone number in the back, but... well, now you have my phone number. So call me."

"I totally will." She smiled as she stood up, tipping the book into a voluminous backpack. "Damn, I'm late, I've got to go. But I'll see you again. How about we meet here? Same place, same time, Friday next week?"

"Yes, I'd like that," I agreed, turning the ring round and round on my own finger. My hands were so huge compared to hers that it only fit on my little finger, but it was still compulsive, twisting it.

"Good. I'll see you then." She collected her bike and hung her bag from the handlebars. "I might even bring Benjamin if I can convince him to come."

"Wait... next Friday," I protested, suddenly remembering what day it was. "I can't. We've got a gig. A secret gig. A secret Secret Machines gig. We'll be soundchecking all afternoon, no doubt."

"Soundchecking?" She raised a curious eyebrow. "Where?"

"Daddy-O's Records. On Driggs Avenue. Don't tell a soul, it's a secret."

"Secret as the grave," she swore, with a wink. "Well, I don't know about Benjamin, but I'll be there. I promise." 

Then she wrestled the door open, jumped astride her bike and cycled off. I stared after her, twisting the ring round and round my finger, trying to make sense of it. She wanted to be my friend - and I was glad of that, on so many levels. But Brandon... the more I unpeeled that onion, the more complicated he got. True, maybe Benjamin had every right to bear a grudge if Brandon had shot his mouth off about him in the British press, but it took two people to not speak to each other for nearly three years. Brandon was stubborn enough, of that I was sure. But as I stared after the direction in which Alley had disappeared, I had another thought. I am wasting all this money on travelling back and forth a mile and a half on the subway. I should buy a fucking bicycle.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (When I wrote this, I thought that the idea of a blizzard in April was somewhat pushing the bounds of credibility. However, as I post this, it is April, and there is an actual snowstorm, in London.)
> 
> When a freak blizzard traps Charley at the Fire Station for the weekend, Brandon lets down his guard and tells her the real* story of what happened with his brother.
> 
> *By "real" I mean COMPLETELY FICTIONAL AND MADE UP, but within the universe of this story.

That Friday, an unseasonably freezing cold morning, I cycled for the first time from my house to the Fire Station, and found it an even easier and quicker commute than the subway - especially without the long walk at the other end. So, consequently, I was actually twenty minutes early. And when I rang the bell - waiting forever for Brandon to come down and let me in - I found him wrapped in towels and dripping wet.

"Do you have some kind of radar, whereby you can actually tell, when I'm still in bed, or in the shower, or on the can, or whatever it is that would make the most inconvenient moment for you to ring the doorbell?" he grumbled as I wheeled my bike into the hall.

"Yup, I definitely have a radar for the precise moment that you step into the shower, because I so desperately want to see you naked," I teased back, following him up the stairs, watching the little dimples in his back undulate over the top of his towel. The fucker walked like a panther, but he had no clue how sexy he was. He disappeared back into the shower, so I made a pot of tea, poured myself a cup and flopped down on his bed (because the sofa had been overrun by books again.) I was going to go through the pile of music magazines at the bottom of the bed, to see if our photo and/or press release were in them, but I was distracted by what looked like a copy of The Bible, with another envelope tucked into it, left casually on the table just by the bed.

I hated feeling like I was snooping, especially after the frosty reception I'd got when I asked him about the other gospel, but it just seemed so out of character for him to be reading a Bible in bed. My curiosity got the better of me and I cracked it open, but even though it was a modern Bible, in modern language, not like the ancient thee's and thou's of the KJV of my youth, it still didn't make any sense. But then I turned to the envelope - I noticed it had a postmark from Texas, and when I turned it over, I saw the slip of paper it had contained was tucked into the fold. The letterhead of a church, and then a few mysterious lines:

1 John 3:17  
Proverbs 15:1  
Psalm 133:1

I leaned forward and listened out to make sure that the water of the shower was still running, then flicked through the Bible until I found the right passages.

_But if anyone has the world's goods and sees his brother in need, yet closes his heart against him, how does God's love abide in him?_

_A soft answer turns away wrath, but a harsh word stirs up anger._

_Behold, how good and pleasant it is when brothers dwell in unity!_

I thought for a moment about what Alley had told me about how long it had been since Brandon and his brother had talked, then my eye was drawn upwards to a line in the letterhead, the only line of text on the right-hand side, underneath a line-drawing of a funny-looking modernist church. Pastor: The Rev M.J. Curtis, it read. And I realised with a shock that this was what passed for a letter from his father. With a guilty conscience, I tucked the card back into the envelope, the envelope back into the Bible and placed the whole thing back at the side of the bed, just as I realised that I could no longer hear the sound of the shower next door. Only just in time, I managed to pick up a copy of the NME and was casually flipping through it when he finally emerged from the bathroom again, the soap rinsed out of his hair.

"Get out of my bed," Brandon sniffed as he saw me, rubbing at his head with a towel.

"Why don't you get in?" I tossed back, without even bothering to take my nose out of the magazine.

"One of these days, I'm going to..." muttered Brandon, but his voice trailed out as he found a pair of jeans and a clean shirt.

"Cut you into little pieces?" I sung back in my best Pink-Floyd-Gone-Wrong voice.

He bent down and snatched the NME out of my hand. "Don't... spill tea on our news story. I'm saving it for the scrapbook."

"Do you know, I got my first drink for being an indie-rock superstar the other day?"

"Good for you," he told me, nonplussed as he stowed away the newspaper and carried his clothes through into the bathroom.

"Can't wait till I get my first indie-rock superstar shag," I called after him. The NME's slang was wearing off on me.

"They're overrated."

"What, indie-rock superstars, or shags?"

"I wouldn't know."

"You're no fun today. What's got into you, Brandon?"

Brandon reappeared, fully dressed, and frowned at me. "What's got into me, is that we have a gig, exactly a week tonight. And not just any gig, but our first gig, for over a year, with a brand new guitarist. So you will forgive me, if I am more worried about rehearsing than I am about playing games with you, Charley."

"Alright, alright, let's go downstairs and rehearse then. Have you worked out what setlist you want to do?"

"No, and I need to talk to Josh about that, he's always been really good about sequencing. And getting the right balance between playing the new stuff, that we're really excited to play, and all the old stuff that the audience really wants to hear."

"You might want to dry your hair," I warned him as he found a jumper. "It's fucking freezing out, so it'll be super cold in that studio until we get warmed up."

"Alright, alright, Mom."

I rolled my eyes as he echoed my own words, and made another pot of tea as he ran the hairdryer over his head. On mornings like this, I wondered why I bothered. Brandon was a pain in the ass, really, a crotchety, cranky old man who fussed over unimportant things and completely forgot absolutely crucial things. Why was I even still hung up on him? I thought about the barista at the coffeeshop - cute, but not my type, really - and wondered if there might be other adoring boys at the Daddy-O's gig that might actually be more to my taste, and wondered what they would be willing to give me for free?

But as soon as we went downstairs and plugged in and started playing, it all came back. He plugged in his bass and dialled up the echo on his delay, then started playing a very familiar riff, the distinctive bounce-back bassline from Pink Floyd's One Of These Days. I looked over and he was tentatively grinning at me from under his hair, one eyebrow raised as if to say, you want to tease, at least tease me musically. I joined in, rumbling along on my bottom string, then dialled up my Moogerfooger and set my loop/sampler to backwards reverb, and started to add the chiming keyboard stabs. We managed to keep it going for all of five minutes until it fell apart, Brandon sitting splayed across his piano stool, trying to play the bassline with his right hand and the keys with his left as I started my most pretentious David Gilmour blues riffing over the top.

He flubbed a note and just started to laugh, as the music collapsed around us. "Stop, stop... don't even let Josh hear you playing that."

"Why? Does he hate it?" I pushed my hair out of my face and tried to reset my pedals.

"No, he would want to keep going and play the entire album."

"And why not? Meddle's an absolute classic."

"If we're going for mid-period Floyd, I think I prefer Saucerfull of Secrets," Brandon grumbled.

"There's still a Barrett song on Saucerfull. That makes it early, not mid Floyd," I pointed out, in bratty big sister mode.

Brandon sighed huffily, blowing a single tendril of damp hair out of his face with a mighty pout, and turned back to his keyboard, just tossing about the chords he'd just abandoned, trying to make something new out of them. I followed him at first, then tried to pull him out of the obvious homage by throwing in expected counterpoint and harmony.

We weren't even playing a song, we were just fucking about, our push-me, pull-you game, where he would play one chord to start with, then I'd pick the next, until we had a rhythm going, and then we'd start to build on it, and chase each others' tails, anticipating one another's moves, just a form of jamming, I suppose, but with an air of flirting and competition thrown in. Over the past three months of playing together, we had started to develop almost a sixth sense, just knowing what the other one's favourite chords and progressions were, until we didn't even have to tell each other what we were going to do next, it just rolled out of us. All of my sexual frustration, I sublimated into the music - I didn't know what Brandon did with it, if indeed he even felt it. But no, I couldn't stop thinking about what he'd said the month before, sitting in the cab outside my apartment. _What I want to do to you_. He felt it too, he had to, the way his mouth curled up at the corners when we nailed another riff, teasing one another back and forth musically, building harmonic structures out of that sublimated desire.

Usually after about half an hour of this, Josh would turn up, and join in, and lead us to some final resolution, a couple of snare hits the flourish that would finally end the song. But today, he was late - which wasn't that out of the ordinary, he could be hours late sometimes. So instead, Brandon and I played on, finding another riff to bounce off one another, and then another, and then another. And then I looked at my watch, and three hours had gone by.

So we went upstairs and made another pot of tea while Brandon tried to reach him on the mobile, then gave up and went back down to play for another hour. It was mid-afternoon when Brandon's phone finally rang back.

"Josh! Where the fuck are you? When are you getting here? Have you forgotten it's Friday?"

I could hear Josh's voice on the other end of the phone. "Have you looked out the window recently?"

"What?" There was only one window in the studio, and it was way too high up to see anything out of it. But then I realised as I looked at it. The icicles were back, hanging from the eaves. In April. "Charley, can you go to the door and see what he's on about?" Brandon sighed, like a long-suffering parent.

I walked to the door, wrestled it open, though it was unexpectedly hard to get moving, and stared out, into about six inches of thickly blanketed whiteness. "Brandon, you better come here," I called, not trusting my own eyes.

Brandon was a few feet behind me, dragging the phone by its cord. "What the fuck. It is the first week of April. What is that doing outside?"

"That's what I'm trying to tell you, man," Josh's voice bleated over the line. "I cannot even get the car out of the garage. I was gonna get the subway, but none of the lines that go overground in Brooklyn are running right now."

I stuck my head out the door, trying to look up into the sky, but the snow kept coming, so thickly I could barely see the sky. There was no end in sight, no break in the clouds, just bleak, iron-coloured sky, as far as the eye could see. "A blizzard. In April. Whatever happened to global warming?"

"It's not global warming, it's climate change," Brandon pointed out pedantically. "And this sure is change alright. Look, Josh, don't come all the way out here. You won't get home. I'll call Paul later, see if we can switch our days in the studio around so we can practice some evening next week. See ya." He put the phone down, then gazed at me. "What about you? How are you gonna get home?"

I looked past him at the bicycle. "There's no way I'm riding home in this. But this is absurd, it can't last forever. It's April, it's got to melt in a couple of hours. I'll just wait it out here. Do you have any food?"

Brandon smiled wryly. "Actually I just bought a truckload of food last night - I knew you and Josh were gonna start whining about going to the diner, and once you're there, just start getting drunk, like you always do. So I thought I'd distract you by making you dinner and making you get back to work."

"It'll be fine, then. It'll be... well, trapped together in an enclosed space - it'll be a lot like going on tour, won't it?" I turned to follow him back into the studio, but he went upstairs instead. "What are you doing, don't you want to play some more," I asked, almost disappointed.

"I'm gonna go turn on the television, see if there's any news about it. Grab a bag of nachos out of the cupboard, will you? There's salsa in the fridge if you want it, too."

"You did prepare," I mock-gasped, looking at the state of fridge, uncharacteristically full of food. I grabbed some chips and followed him through into the bedroom, to find him staring at a television I had never even noticed, balanced on the dresser opposite the bed. He sat down on the bed and started flipping through the channels with the remote, so I sat beside him, opening the salsa and balancing it on a plate between us.

Channel One was a stream of non-stop weather porn, alternating between shots of trees in Vermont completely encased in ice, and worried looking talking heads going on about freak weather events. The satellite map showed a giant weather system smothering the Eastern Seaboard like a woolly scarf. How the fuck had I missed this? Then again, I hadn't looked at the weather forecast all morning. Why would I have? It was April.

Brandon stared at the huge swirling "superstorm" on the screen. "Power out in Long Island and much of Western Connecticut? Shit."

"Have you got candles?"

"I've got, like a couple of weird Santeria candles that a crazy ex girlfriend once bought me, but..." His voice trailed off. He never talked about ex girlfriends.

"Santeria candles? The ones in the jars? Like those freaky bought-them-down-the-herbalist put a voodoo spell on you candles with the saints and angels and bleeding hearts of Jesus and the Hand of Glory on them? I wouldn't keep those around the house, especially if they were given to you by a crazy ex-girlfriend, you never know what kind of spell she'll put on you if you burn them," I teased, trying to coax a smile out of him by mocking his hesitation.

That slightly uncertain half-smile crossed his face as his brows knit together, like he could never entirely tell if the teasing was affectionate or not. "I kinda like them. Some of the pictures on them have such lurid colours they're accidentally quite psychedelic."

"Better find them. We could be here a while." He went into the kitchen and dug around in cupboards until he'd located a stack of candles, a book of matches, a flashlight, and even a giant car battery. "What's that for, then? You haven't got a car."

"I read online that you can use them to recharge mobile phones if the power goes out. If the weather gets really bad, we might need them."

As if in confirmation of his words, my phone started to ring. Moira. I picked it up. "Hi, sweetie darling. Where are you?"

"I'm at home, sweetie darling. We all get sent home at lunchtime. Bloody snow, sweetie. I got in a load of shopping on the way home, but where the heck are you?"

"I'm at Brandon's. I came extra early for rehearsal, but... guess I'm stuck here."

"Stay there. The subway's a fucking mess. Total freakshow. I had to get a different train and walk back from Queens. It's fucking disgusting out there - wet heavy snow that's half melted because the ground is so warm, but turns to ice as soon as it settles because the air is so damn cold. You do not want to be out in this."

"I guess I'll just stay here then, till it's over." I glanced over to make sure that Brandon had gone back into the kitchen, and started to giggle. "Me and Brandon stuck in his bedroom all weekend."

"I'm sure something will come up," Moira giggled. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do - actually, scratch that. Do everything I would never do, and more. Brandon looks to me like he'd be totally dirty."

"Fuck off!"

"I love you, too!"

"Yeah, I don't love you when you talk to me like that," I snorted with laughter, right as Brandon walked back into the room and frowned. "See you when snowpocalypse is over, bye."

"You shouldn't talk to her like that," Brandon said quietly.

"She knows I'm just kidding around. We always talk to each other like that."

"Yeah, but..." He lowered his voice and he settled back into the bed, picking at the nachos. "A big disaster like this always reminds me. You never know what's going to happen. One day you might never see your loved ones again. And what if _I don't love you_ was the last thing you ever said to your girlfriend, what if _I don't love you_ were your last words to someone you cared about?"

I glared at him. This wasn't about Moira, was it? "This is a bit rich coming from you, when your own brother lives a mile and a half away from you, and you haven't spoken to him in how many years." As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I knew I shouldn't have said it, but then again... what was he going to do? Throw me out of the house?

Brandon's mouth tightened into a grim line. Abruptly he stood up and marched off across the bed, making me rush to keep the salsa from spilling all over the mattress. Maybe I should have apologised, but I said nothing, watching him dig through his bookshelves.

"What are you looking for?" I finally asked him, when I realised that an answer was not going to be forthcoming.

"I keep everything, in scrapbooks. You know me, I'm like a pack rat. So I'm going to show you." Eventually he located what he was looking for, a scrapbook with a plain black cover, and 2007-8 written on the front in gold marker pen. He flipped through the pages, until he found what he was looking for. "You might as well know everything, since you seem to care so much."

The paper was wrinkled, like it had been crumpled into a ball, then smoothed out and put into the book, but I could still read the text easily. It was a one-page news item, mostly an interview, about Benjamin leaving the band. And it was... well, although it was not as vicious as Alley had depicted, well, it was way over the line. He was quite casually - and uncharacteristically, to my ears - bitchy about Alley, but he saved his worst vitriol for Benjamin, saying that the band had always put "bros before hoes, but that seems to have changed now." I read it again to make sure that it really had said what I thought it said, then looked up at him, shaking my head.

"I'm not sure that I'd be speaking to you, if you'd said this crap about me - and I'm not even related to you."

"Yeah," Brandon agreed, to my great surprise. "That'd be completely justified. If I'd actually said any of it."

"But it's an interview, with you. There's a photo of you in the NME office, with a dictaphone and a cup of tea in front of you."

"Read it again," Brandon directed, sitting down next to me, so close he could read over my shoulder. "That bit, that paragraph at the front where I say that I don't know what's going on with the band, that we have recorded an album, but we don't know what we're going to do with it, that bit is me. And this bit at the end, where I say good luck to Benjamin and Alley, though it sounds incredibly sarcastic and mean after all the shit that's come before - that was me, and believe it or not, that was actually intended genuinely. I did wish them good luck, they're talented kids, and Benjamin is my little brother - why would I wish them anything but good luck?" His eyes flashed with great hurt, underneath the anger. "But this bit. Look, starting here. _'Sources close to Brandon say that he's devastated by the loss, and views it as a betrayal.'_ That's not me. They don't say who it is - though I have a pretty good guess. And this next quote - that shit about Alley, that's not me at all. Does that even sound like me? That's not how I talk. And the bit about _'bros before hoes'_ \- as if that's even something I would fucking say? None of that is me. But then, without even starting another paragraph: _Brandon shifts in his chair, frowning sullenly, and says 'I don't know what the future of the band holds right now. But you never know what the future holds.'_ That is actually me again, but they've woven it in with all that other shit from their 'sources close to the band' again so that it looks like I said everything, and I didn't."

I read the interview again, and suddenly I saw what he meant. "Well, now that you've pointed it out, the whole thing doesn't make sense. Sometimes they use quotation marks for this 'sources close to the band' and sometimes they don't. It's hard to tell. I don't actually know who said what at this point. But yeah, you're right. I can't ever imagine you saying 'bros before hoes.' That just doesn't sound like the boy I know, who comes from a long line of kick-ass Texan feminists, would ever say."

"And yet Benjamin believed it. And that's what hurts the most. That my little brother - who I have known since the day he was fucking born, and I can remember the day he was born, I was six and a half, I can remember going to see him in the hospital, this bony little ball of mewling orange hair, like a kitten - would believe that I could say this shit about him, and stop talking to me for two fucking years over it. And take the fucking NME's word for it, but never ask me. That fucking hurts."

"I'm sorry," I didn't know what else to say, I just pushed the scrapbook onto the floor and moved closer to him, wrapping my arm around his shoulder, and pulling him towards me. I thought he would resist, push me off and tell me to go to hell, to stop flirting with him at a time like this, but I didn't even mean it as flirting. I just saw someone I cared about a lot, hurting, and I wanted to do something to make it stop. But to my surprise, he collapsed into me, curling his arm around my waist and leaning his head against my shoulder, all the fight going out of him with an exhaled breath. I put my other arm around him and started to smooth his hair, pressing his head gently against me. I could feel his chest heaving, his whole body shaking slightly, and I realised he was crying. "It's OK," I told him, wrapping my arms around him as tight as I could, and just clutching him against me. "It's OK."

He raised his head slightly. "You believe me?"

"Of course I believe you."

He murmured something back, into my shoulder, but I didn't catch it. I just let him cry, stroking his hair and occasionally nuzzling my cheek against him. And after about twenty minutes, the sobs started to pass, as he calmed down again, and lay still against me. And finally, he pulled away, smiling up at me bravely as he lay back and flopped down against the bed, wriggling up until his head was on the pillow, just lying there and staring at me. For a moment, I was tempted to follow him, to lie down beside him and wrap my arms and legs around him, and pull him into a proper embrace, and start to kiss his mouth, but even I, as emotionally dumb as I could often be, realised that that would probably be an inappropriate thing to do.

Finally he managed a proper smile, wiping salty tracks away from his cheeks. "Thank you."

"For what?" I reached over and gave his ankle a friendly tug. He smiled back at me and prodded me with his foot, folding his arms up behind his head. For a man who had just been bawling his eyes out, he looked far more beautiful than he had any right to, his hair splayed out about his head like a halo, his eyes glittering, his lips thick and slightly bruised looking. I dragged my eyes away and stood up. "Do you want a drink?"

"Yeah. Not tea, though. If you go and look in the cupboard above the fridge, you'll find a new bottle of Jameson's. Bring that and two glasses - well, if you want some, too."

And so we lay in bed together - well, lying next to each other, but not actually touching - and watched the snow reports pile in on the news until we got bored and turned over to an old movie, and we drank whiskey until the world stopped hurting. Or rather, Brandon lay and watched the impossibly sad Bogie and Bacall film, and I lay and watched Brandon, mentally tracing the line of his jaw, the ghosts of old scars across the skin of his face, the line of his cupid's bow, lips, the slight sunken hollows beneath his cheekbones, the lines around the corners of his mouth that revealed his age. I was too drunk to care if he caught me staring, so I just stared, wanting to touch and smooth the wicked crook of his eyebrows, wanting to brush the stray eyelash off his cheek, and make a wish that the snow would never, ever end.

Finally, as the movie ended, he turned to comment on the ending, and caught me staring. But instead of getting angry, he shifted, turning over onto his side, and stared back, his soft, chocolate-drop eyes boring into mine, sliding down to my lips, across to the line of my hair, down to the open neck of my shirt, then back up to my eyes, his lips twitching into a smile. "God, you're beautiful," he sighed.

"God, you're drunk," I retorted, unable to stop being sarcastic, even for a minute.

"I am. And you're still beautiful." He paused, reached out and tentatively put his finger to my lower lip. I parted my lips, extended my tongue and touched it, ever so tentatively, to the tip of his finger, tasting the slightly acrid tang of electricity. "God, if you weren't..." he muttered, moved his finger up and down my lips for a moment, then pulled his hand away.

"If I weren't _what_?"

"But you are... and I'm... Shit. Nothing's changed. And I'm... I'm sorry. I told you I'm an asshole. I... no. Don't." He seemed too drunk to finish a coherent thought as he rolled back onto his back, staring away past me, up at the television. Finally, he stood up, and walked through into the bathroom. I heard the creak of a window opening, and felt a cold breeze. Then he closed he door and I turned my attention back to the television until he returned. The next film was some kind of war film, a bunch of German soldiers all stuck together in the bowels of a U-boat, turning on each other as the enemy - really, the good guys - closed in.

"It's still fucking snowing," he observed when he returned. "There's got to be nearly two foot out there."

I got up and went to look out the tiny bathroom window, and saw a world completely covered in white - I couldn't even see the road, it just looked like a glittering white river. When I returned to the bedroom, he was digging through a pile of videos.

"Shall we watch another movie?" he offered. "I don't think I can take submarine films, reminds me too much of being on tour."

"Yeah, I guess. I should whip you into shape and tell you that we should practice some more, I think I'm too drunk to go down and play again."

He stopped and grinned up at me. "I love that you're even more obsessed with music than I am." But then he moved another box and pulled out some DVDs.

"Chasing Amy," I observed, taking one of them from him. "I love Kevin Smith."

He smiled wryly and shot me a pleading look, but then just shrugged and put the movie on, and I thought no more of it, as I got so caught up in the film. Christ, another unrequited love story with an unhappy ending, though, that was not what I needed to see at that moment - and it didn't particularly seem to cheer Brandon up, either. He got up at some point to make burritos, which we ate lying in bed, watching the film, then finished off the pack of nachos. The bottle of whiskey was disappearing at an alarming rate, but I knew it was really the only way I was going to be coping with this, lying in bed watching sad romantic movies with a man I loved more than anything, yet couldn't have. He poured another glass for me, handed it to me, then left his arm draped about my shoulders as the film rolled to its unhappy conclusion.

"Christ, the ending of that film gets me. They so obviously loved each other, why couldn't they just get it together?" I sighed. That thing, where Amy shrugged and made a wisecrack to cover the tears in her eye, I knew that feeling way too well.

"Well, at least he got a graphic novel out of it," Brandon shrugged. "That's what I always tell myself, that even the worst failed relationship, you can always forge something beautiful out of the ruins. Even the worst failed relationship of my life..." The way his tongue tripped over it, I guessed he was talking about Jacinta. "Without it, I would never have written Ten Silver Drops, and I still think that's the best thing I've ever done."

"Can we watch a comedy next?" I muttered into his neck. I wasn't sure when we'd rolled together, but I was annoyed when his warmth moved away from me.

"I don't have any comedies. I don't like comedies."

"Monty Python's Meaning Of Life. I can see that from here. That's a comedy."

"Is it?" he asked, turning towards me and staring at me meaningfully. I just burst out laughing, and he grinned back at me.

"You dry bastard. I can never tell when you're joking."

He popped the DVD into the machine and flopped back onto the bed, manoeuvring himself into position in the nest of pillows. "Come here," he directed, holding out his arm until I crawled towards him, and laid my head back on his chest. "Don't get any ideas. You're just warm, and it's fucking freezing in this house," he told me as he wrapped his arm around me and pulled me close, tugging the blankets up until they covered both of us, as the sketch of the pirate office building started to play. Bed. Brandon. Warmth. I fit in his arms so perfectly, his hands knitted together to completely encircle me, resting on the curve of my waist, my head just nestled into that little hollow just below his chin, our legs twined around one another. I closed my eyes for a moment, and just breathed him in, the scent of him. He felt comfortable and safe, like I never wanted to leave his embrace.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Brandon and Charley trapped at the Fire Station together by a superstorm and then a blackout, how long do you think it will be before they act on their increasingly undeniable attraction to one another?

I don't remember when I fell asleep - if I ever fell asleep or if I just passed out, warm and drowsy from the whisky and the heavy food and the warmth of Brandon's arms around my neck. But I woke crushed up against him, using his chest for a pillow, one arm trapped underneath him, the other wrapped around his waist. And he was tapping me gently on the shoulder, even though his other arm was still tangled around my shoulders.

"Charley," he whispered, though there was no one else to hear. "Charley let go of me, I need to get up and use the can."

It took me a moment to understand what I was asking, but then he started to move underneath me, and I got the idea, releasing his body and shifting so he could extract his arm. "Promise me you'll come back."

He bent down and brushed his mouth against the top of my head. I wanted to turn my mouth towards him and kiss him properly, but he pulled away and shuffled off. I lay back down and tried to sleep, but the bed was chilly without him. And then I realised that about ten minutes had passed, and he wasn't back. Sitting up, I looked around. He wasn't in the bedroom. He wasn't even in the bathroom when I peered in to check. I finally found him in the kitchen, smoking a cigarette and staring forlornly into the percolating coffeemaker with a shellshocked expression on his face.

"You don't smoke," I observed stupidly, frowning at the cigarette.

"I used to. I found the pack when I went looking for the matches."

"Come back to bed?" I asked, but he just shook his head as if words wouldn't form, then abruptly stood up and went to the coffeemaker.

"Do you want coffee? I bought soy milk just for you. Think there's even enough Jameson's to make Vegan Irish Coffee if you want it."

_I don't want Vegan Irish Coffee_ , I wanted to shout, and stamp my feet. _I want you to put that cigarette out and come back to bed. Come on, that was a promise, wasn't it? You held me, you kissed the top of my head and spent the night lying in my arms. Wasn't that a down payment, on physical intimacy to come? Come on, Brandon, it's not fair. Don't write checks you can't cash._

But instead, I shrugged vaguely. "Do you have a hangover?"

"A bit." He clamped the cigarette between his teeth as he poured.

"Has it stopped snowing?" I looked around, but he had blocked up the windows of the kitchen and bedroom with those ever-present massive bookshelves.

"Yeah, and I'm gonna have to clear the drive before it freezes solid," Brandon sighed.

I sipped at my coffee in silence, nibbled the toast he had flipped onto my plate, then walked back through into the bedroom. I found a massive brown woolly cardigan in his shelves, and put on an extra pair of his socks, then walked back out to the kitchen to finish the last of my coffee, feeling the caffeine and alcohol restoring me to normalcy I didn't entirely feel.

"That's my sweater," Brandon observed, sounding slightly annoyed.

"Yeah, well, I'm not dressed for this weather. I'm going to need extra layers if I'm going to help you clear the drive. Have you got a warm hat I can borrow?"

He smiled at that, went back into the bedroom and dug around, then emerged with what looked like a child's cap, with a woolly bobble on the end of it. Grinning at me, he jammed it down on my head, then carefully arranged the hanging tail. "There you go, Pippi Longstocking, all you need is a pair of braids."

"I could do braids if you like. I could even give you a pair of braids if you like," I teased.

"You haven't even seen my hat," he protested, his face a parody of seriousness as he pulled a patterned Icelandic hat out of his pocket and tied the flaps very carefully under his chin. "What do you think?"

"Definitely needs braids." I untied the string and pulled it off, then set about dividing his hair into sections, surprised that he was actually letting me do this, twisting his thick hair into two sturdy plaits. "You look like a real Viking now," I observed, digging in my bag for hair-ties as he held the ends so they didn't unravel. "Do you have any Viking ancestry anywhere? You're rather too convincing."

"Irish, my Dad reckoned. Were there Vikings in Ireland?"

"I don't know. I'll have to ask Moira, she's my authority on all things Oirish," I laughed, but his face grew serious again at the mention of her.

"Come on," he insisted, rising from his chair. "Work to do."

"I would kill to get a photo... don't you have a cameraphone or something?"

"Oh, alright." He was oddly compliant when hungover, locating his iPhone and handing it to me, looking at me with a slightly mischievous expression as I snapped a picture and emailed it to myself. "Now come on. I'll go grab the shovels." And as he passed me, he did it again, that oddly affectionate gesture where he rested his hand ever so lightly on the small of my back as if he were going to put his arm around me, but then he slipped off down the stairs and was gone.

Downstairs, I found he'd left a heavy coat out for me, not his military greatcoat, but an old dufflecoat with complicated buttons I couldn't quite work out, so instead I wrapped a scarf between the gap and headed outside.

The world was almost unrecognisable with a blanket of nearly three feet of solid white covering everything in sight. Cars were just vague lumps in the street, houses almost lost in snowdrifts that reached up to their eaves, benches and fire hydrants had just disappeared. But Brandon had started on the wide expanse of his front drive, trying to dig an exploratory path down to the road. Everything glittered, as if the wet, soggy snow had already started turning to ice as the temperature had dropped overnight, and you had to break the crust before you could shift the snow underneath. A snowplough had been through at some point in the night, as there was a ridge of dirty snow at the bottom of the yard, but another six inches or so had fallen on top, so that the road was barely passable again. Every now and then I saw half-covered tracks, but Brandon and I were the only people out that morning. So I dug a trench through to the other side of the drive, and started to clear from the opposite direction.

We worked well together, though it was backbreaking labour. We would clear another yard in the direction of the road, starting from the middle and working our way out, then I'd sit down and rest for a bit as he went through and salted the newly cleared ground to stop it from icing over again. When we weren't in motion, it was bitterly cold, with a stinging bite of wind, so I actually preferred to be digging to sitting still, and jumped from foot to foot even when resting my tired arms.

I couldn't help it, though - I just had to fire off a mischievous snowball at Brandon when his back was turned. He turned around, frowned at me and walked very slowly and purposefully up to me, then stood, folding his eyebrows at me in that way that meant he was quite serious as he informed me "I had four little siblings. Don't even think of trying it."

The minute his back was turned, I lobbed another snowball at him and stuck my tongue out. He quite casually walked back up to me, picked up a handful of snow, then deliberately pulled my hood back and dropped it down my back, between his borrowed sweater and my bare skin. I shrieked aloud at the cold, and tried to hit him, but he danced out of my reach, his eyes twinkling. "Bastard!"

"I did warn you. Now back to work!"

After about an hour, we had finally made our way down to the edge of the road, though the mountain of ploughed snow made the final few feet an almost impossible task. Brandon went inside for a minute as I sat on an ice-brick and tried to measure it, then he returned with steaming cups of tea before we tackled that last stretch. But at last, after moving what felt like an iceberg of snow and grit, the concrete of the driveway turned to the asphalt of the road. When it was finally done, we both turned around, leaning on our shovels, and surveyed our work with pride.

"Look at that ice," I observed. "The telephone wires are just dripping with it."

"We should knock them down so it doesn't pull out our electricity lines," Brandon sighed, reaching up with the blade of his shovel to try and smash them.

"Don't use that one, it's metal. Use this one, it's plastic," I warned, taking the heavier shovel from him and planting it in the mountain of snow at the side of the drive. "Do you think the river's frozen?"

"Doubt it. It's still salt water even as far as the Throgs Neck Bridge."

"What kind of an animal do you think a Throg is? Do you reckon it's like a frog that got caught in a whirlpool?"

"A flying frog, like a cross between a frog and a thrush," Brandon mused, giving up on the icicles and staring out at the street. "Do you want to walk up to Bedford, see if anything is open?"

"Can we walk out to the river and at least check if it's frozen?" I begged.

"If it's clear enough to get through, I don't know how much has been ploughed," Brandon warned, but the two of us set off, slipping and sliding over icy patches in the road. We didn't even bother walking on the sidewalks, none of which had been cleared yet, but skidded between tire-tracks, laughing as we stumbled and caught onto one another. Once I slipped and nearly went over, taking him with me, but he caught me just at the last minute and righted me, laughing at my surprised face. A couple of kids went by, laughing at Brandon's pigtails. They tried to launch some snowballs at us, but Brandon bent over, picked up a giant snow-boulder and waved it in their direction menacingly, and they giggled and slid off again in the opposite direction. The shops were all closed, the bars were all closed - even the bodega was closed, which lent a real end of the world feeling to the afternoon.

"It's starting to snow again," Brandon observed, squinting up at the sky, which had turned a malevolent shade of iron grey after the morning's brief burst of sunshine. "We should turn back." It had already taken us nearly half an hour to walk the normally ten minute route up to the local shops.

"Not until I see the river," I insisted petulantly.

"There won't be ice."

"There might be icebergs, if they've been ploughing on upper Manhattan." We pushed on, even though he was right, and the brief flurries were turning to proper pelting snow again. When we finally reached the river, though the gates were shut, and we had to look through the chicken wire, I was indeed right, and there were giant mountains of snow floating down the East River. "Honour satisfied," I told him, though I was too proud to mention that I wished I had brought a pair of gloves. When we weren't walking, it was too cold to stand still for long. "I dare you to lick the fence."

"No fucking way. Though there's always some kid stupid enough to do that, down in Texas."

"It snows in Texas?" I stared at him like he was pulling my leg.

"Not on the Gulf, no, but up in the far West, where I come from? Sometimes. I certainly wouldn't go licking no pump handle there in January."

"Well, I'll be." I blew on my fingers to try and warm them, but he moved closer towards me, took them between his gloved hands and rubbed gently.

"Come on, you're freezing. Let's go back."

It was snowing in earnest as we picked our way back, and the wind had risen, blowing little eddies of ice crystals across the road in front of us. Bedford, at least, had been ploughed again, as we made our way between the mountains at the edge of street to cross the road. Slipping and sliding, we almost skated our way down the side streets until we got to the Fire Station, but I howled with outrage when I saw it.

"How could they? Fucking bastards, we just cleared that..." A snowplough had been down Brandon's road while we were gone, and the bottom of the neatly shovelled drive we had only just cleared was now mounded with two feet of dirty brownish-grey snow again.

"Don't worry about it," Brandon sighed. "I'm going to have to shovel it again, once this shit clears up..."

But I was already across the new ridge, making my way to the giant ten-foot plough mountain on the corner of his lot, where I had planted the shovels. I grabbed at the plastic one, thinking it would easier to get free, but Brandon had pushed it deep into the snow. Putting my back into it, I braced my foot against the lump of soggy ice, half-melted by the salt, and pulled with all my might.

"Charley!" I heard Brandon's scream just a second before I heard the awful shriek of collapsing ice, and then a rushing sound like an avalanche as whiteness poured onto me from all around.

Complete white-out. I couldn't tell if my eyes were open or closed, it looked exactly the same. I was freezing cold, almost unbearably cold, but there wasn't even space for my teeth to chatter, and after about half a minute, even that went, replaced by a soggy sort of numbness. All I could hear was my heartbeat, throbbingly loud in my ears, and an odd swishing sound I realised was the coursing of blood through my own body. What a cool sound, I thought to myself, I wonder if we could sample that... It was so hard to breathe. I tried to open my mouth, but snow crushed down into it. I jerked my head, but there was no room to move.

And then I heard another sound, a steady, even crunching sound, like someone digging. Something struck my shoulder, and I mumbled to protest this, even as the whiteness of the snow was growing brighter.

"Charley!" Someone calling my name, though the sound was muffled. The digging noise stopped, and hands appeared, reaching for my face, pushing snow out of the way, clearing my blocked nostrils, digging out my mouth, and then my eyes. A well of whiteness, with a tiny circle of blue at the top, and then a familiar face looking in, with terror showing in his eyes, belying the silliness of the braids hanging by the sides of his face. "Charley are you alright?"

"I'm..." I was going to say I was fine, but I realised I could not feel my body. "I'm alive."

"Thank fuck. Close your eyes, I'm going to widen this hole..." I did as I was told, and the sound of digging resumed, the circle of brightness growing any larger. As he freed my arms, I tried to help him, pushing back the snow, but my movements were so clumsy, my limbs were so cold. "Hang on, I'll get you out of here." Reaching down, he pushed the last of the snow out of the way, then picked me up as easily as if I were a child and carried me. So there were my legs. And... Ow! They fucking hurt. "How do you feel?"

"Freezing fucking cold, how do you think I feel?"

"Christ, you're sopping wet. Your body heat must have melted some of the snow... it's everywhere. Why didn't you button up your fucking coat?" he fussed, though I could hear the concern in his voice under the panic. Digging in his pockets, he found the keys and scrambled to get the door open, kicking it shut behind him as he charged up the stairs with me still in his arms. He didn't stop until we were in the bathroom, where he deposited me gingerly on the edge of the bathtub as he switched on the hot water. "Come on, we have got to get you out of this, you are soaked through." As he pulled off my hat and scrabbled at the knot of my scarf, a thin layer of mashed-up snow fell onto the floor.

Christ, now that he pointed it out, I was both sopping wet and freezing cold, my teeth chattering with all the movement that had been denied me as I was trapped under the ice. He pulled my - his - sweater and shirt off in one fluid motion, but there was still a layer of slushy ice trapped inbetween.

"Get your shoes off," he insisted, clawing at the laces of my combat boots as I shivered, digging snow out of the eyelets as he tried to get them off. But when he reached for the top button of my jeans, I protested.

"Hey!"

"Get them off, unless you want to go in the shower fully clothed - we have got to get you warmed up, and fast, before frostbite starts to set in."

I did as I was told, pushing my jeans off my hips, trying not to notice the thin layer of ice that went all the way down to my thighs, which had somehow got inside my clothes. And then it was a relief to climb into the warmth of the hot shower, thrusting my head under the showerhead, feeling warm for the first time in I couldn't even remember how long. My skin was turning a weird, mottled colour as the blood rushed back into it. And suddenly Brandon was beside me, taking my hands in his, rubbing them back and forth, then rubbing the colour back into my arms, my shoulders, before moving down and rubbing my frozen thighs, my calves, bending over as if to check that every single one of my toes were still there.

"Toes and noses, it's always the first place people get frostbite - we learned that in the Navy. Got to rub them to get the circulation back in."

"When were you in the Navy?" I asked, surprised.

"Shut up and get back under the water. Rub your face - your nose is bright red." I rubbed, despite the pain, until the feeling came back. And then I realised, looking down at the web braids plastered against his naked back, that I was standing, wearing nothing but my sodden bra and panties, in a shower with Brandon. Of all the ways I didn't want to get naked with him, a close call with death was probably quite high on the list.

"My toes are OK, I can feel all of them now," I insisted.

Brandon gave the littlest one a squeeze, just to check, as he looked up at me. "Even this one?"

And I couldn't help but smile down at him, knowing that he had probably just saved my life. "Even that one, yes."

His hand slipped back up my leg, up my calf to my thigh, and though I knew he was probably just checking for frostbite, I couldn't help but see the self-conscious blush of pleasure that went across his face as he touched my skin. "I... I should probably..." His hand went back down the outside of my thigh, a little firmer on my skin, a little more obviously caressing instead of probing, his head moving closer towards me as if he were going to just reach out and kiss the soft curve of my belly, just inches from his face.

And then everything went black.

"Oh, for fucks sake..." The soft tickle of his hair across my groin as he stumbled to his feet.

"What is it, what's happened?" For a horrible scary second, I thought perhaps I had passed out, but I could see vague shapes in the dark, and Brandon seemed just as concerned as I was.

"Power's gone out. Get out of the shower - now, before it goes cold. Yes, this way, hold my hand, don't knock yourself against the tub..." His hand found mine, guiding me out of the hot water, though the warmth was already fading. "Hang on, I'll get you a towel." Soft warmth enfolded me, his arms on top of the terrycloth in a double embrace. "Fuck, that means the heating will be going, as well."

"Don't you have an oil burner?"

"This old fire station was never heated back in the day. Everything up here is on electrics." I could feel his hands in the dark, trying to rub my hair dry, an odd role reversal. "Shit, we need to keep you warm, and try to get you dry." He rubbed more vigourously with the towel, back and forth against my skin. "Don't take this the wrong way, but the bed is going to be the warmest place in this apartment. Take my hand, follow me." I stumbled in the dark, but he knew his own flat so well he could guide me through, even in the pitch black, stopping at the sofa to pick up a spare blanket. As we reached the bed, he pulled back the covers, but stopped as he touched me. "Take the towel off, you're dryer than it is right now." His hands brushed my bra as he started to wrap the extra blanket around me in the dark. "Take these off, they're sopping."

"I..." But it was no time to protest, I could already feel the fingers of cold permeating the room. At any other time, under any other circumstances, Brandon telling me to take my bra and panties off would have thrilled me with delight, but I felt oddly shy at removing them.

"Get under the covers, I'm just going through into the kitchen to get the candles, I'll be right back."

And so I wrapped the blanket round me and moved, shivering, naked, into his bed.

A few minutes later, he was back, his face illuminated by a single candle as he walked back across the room. His eyes shone, his cheekbones lit up by the glow of it, his single silver tooth shining in the dark. Yet as I looked at him, I realised, "You're not exactly dry yourself. Get out of those things."

He looked down across his bare chest at his soaked jeans, and grimaced. "Here, take this. You're lucky, I made an extra thermos of tea to drink after we finished shovelling and forgot to bring it back downstairs. It's still warm. Help yourself." I sipped it, trying not to watch as he stripped off his jeans, though at least he had the decency to turn around as he peeled off his sopping underpants, and dried himself off with my abandoned towel. He reached up and pulled the braids out of his hair, but despite the damp surface, his hair seemed dry underneath. But although he tried to pretend he wasn't cold, he was clearly shivering himself.

"Come on, get into bed, I've warmed it up now," I promised, shifting out of the way to let him under the covers. "That towel is wet," I warned, so he slowly, apprehensively peeled it off and chucked it out of the bed.

I handed him the thermos, and he sipped, though we tried not to let our bodies touch under the duvet. "God, you are warm now. You were so freezing when I brought you in - your skin was so cold I thought you were a goner." He tentatively reached out to touch me, a cold hand on my shoulder, so I moved closer, trying to breathe my heat back into his body. "That feels good," he whispered as I wrapped my limbs around him.

"It's the least I can do. You just saved my life."

"I guess I did." He laughed nervously, even as he shifted closer to me, holding onto me around the waist, his legs twining with mine. His eyes flashed, as if he were only just now realising that we were lying together, naked in the dark. "If this were one of those crazy science fiction novels you like, this would mean that you owe me your first born child or something."

"Maybe I do. Would you care to try some babymaking?" The joke felt a little hollow, but he smiled with something more than amusement. I moved closer, trying to drape myself across him like a blanket, looking down at him in the candlelight. Even in the half-dark the desire on his eyes was so obvious. I moved my leg, and something brushed against me. Christ, he was hard. The thought went through me like a knife as I slipped on top of his chest, staring down at his face, watching him staring back up at me, fear and desire fighting on his face. The desire seemed to win as his eyes swept down to my mouth, his own lips subconsciously parting slightly, our faces getting closer and closer together, his head lifting off the pillow as mine bent down to his. Our lips touched, the barest pressure of a kiss, then his mouth latched onto mine as he pulled me towards him, his hands on my back, his tongue searching my mouth urgently.

I felt it, all the way down to the tips of my toes, felt the urgency of that kiss, like the whole world had shrunk down to the exact dimensions of his mouth. We kissed, and warmth seemed to flood through our bodies like an electric current. I cupped his face in my hands and pulled it up towards me, feeling the roughness of his skin, the soft bristles of his sideburns, the silky rope of his hair. His lips were so soft and yielding, yet his mouth was hard, firm, biting back at me hungrily as he pulled me up on top of him. I could feel my nipples stiffen against his chest, rubbing myself against him, even as I could feel his cock flopping back and forth between my thighs. Everything seemed unreal, it felt so much like a dream, I wondered for a moment if I had actually just passed out, underneath the ice fall, and if everything after was all just a hallucination.

I pulled away slightly as I edged my body down his, feeling for that place where his groin would meet mine, and he looked up at me with an odd light burning in his eyes. "We shouldn't do this," he warned, even as his hands wandered down my back and across my ass, searching with his fingers between my legs, parting my lips and rubbing back and forth until he could feel the wet within. "There are so many reasons we shouldn't do this."

"I know. Shut up and just do it anyway," I said quietly as I moved my body down and impaled myself on his cock. As I felt him push up inside me, perhaps a tiny bit painfully at first, an expression of bliss and deep peace dusted across his face. But then, as he started to stroke, his movement growing steady and urgent, I lost my breath and felt myself shudder with pleasure inside.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After 24 hours of perfect fucking happiness between Charley and Brandon, Brandon freaks out and ends it, for no apparent reason that Charley can work out, let alone understand.

We moved together so perfectly, it was exactly like playing music with him - and yet somehow even better, our warm skins slipping back and forth across each other, our fingers tangled together, mouths joined, kissing, then biting, then kissing again. He matched my rhythm - or I matched his, it no longer seemed to matter; upbeat, downbeat; kick, snare; bass, guitar; in, out; back, forth; cock, vulva. I rode his beat, he laboured beneath me, holding me up and matching me, caressing me from below, even as I pulled away from him, sitting up to try and get a better angle, the cold of the room not even bothering me as he pulled the blanket up around my shoulders like a cave surrounding us. And then I felt his hands on me, his fingers touching my breasts, cupping them gently, squeezing my nipples between thumb and forefinger. I was almost grinding myself against him, when he moved one hand lower, and pushed one long, elegant piano-playing finger between my legs, searching for my clitoris. When he found it, I shivered, almost involuntarily.

"That's a good shiver, not a bad shiver, right?"

"Yes." It was hard to talk when he was rubbing like that, catching a sensation so intense I almost wanted him to stop, and rolling it back into me like he was kneading bread, leaving me desperate for his finger until it came back round again.

"Can I bring you off like this?" he asked, his eyes sparkling.

"I'm almost there." Leaning back, I could feel the orgasm building at the tip of his finger. It would be so easy to lie back and just let it happen, but at the same time, there was a part of me that was afraid. Afraid of what? That if I let this happen, this would be real? Or that if I came, he would stop? But then he slipped another finger in, and as he squeezed me gently, pressure building exquisitely from all sides, I didn't have a choice. My body spasmed, and I felt my orgasm break, rolling back along inside me as if it were following the path of his cock.

"You just came," he said, a quietly proud statement.

"Yes." I was panting now a little, a tiny sheen of sweat breaking out across my neck and shoulders.

"You're so fucking beautiful when you come." He reached up to touch my face tenderly, even as he carried on with his strokes. "It's the only time I've ever seen you look truly open, vulnerable."

That scared me, I didn't know why, even as I carried on rocking my body against his. "Are you going to come?"

"Yeah, I could if you wanted me to. I practice breath control... yoga... it helps with timing..." It would have sounded like a boast if his fingers weren't still inside me, sending little shivers of aftershock up and down my spine. "Can you turn over?" he asked gravely. "I don't want to come inside you."

I moved, shifted, trying not to let him slip out of me as I turned over, lying back against the bed, but he pulled out of me quiet deliberately. "Put that back," I almost begged him.

"Nah, I'm not actually ready for parenthood, and I know there's no emergency clinics going to be open tomorrow." He said it so straightforwardly, in that slight Texan burr, that it sounded almost kindly, concerned. "Can I come on your tits?" he asked, in that same grave, gentlemanly tone as he wrapped his hand around his cock and started to stroke, much more quickly than he had been shafting me. And in any other situation, I would have burst out laughing if any man had said that to me, in that tone, or any other. But I looked him in the eye and felt this sudden, weird, burning desire to have him mark me, to have him stake me as his territory.

"I want you to come on my face." I don't know what the fuck made me say it, I'd always refused when Chris had asked, it seemed dirty, degrading. But I wanted to feel Brandon on my my skin, on my lips, on my eyes.

"Charley... are you sure?"

"Do it."

He shifted slightly, moved himself higher up my body until he was so close that I could actually raise my head and kiss him gently on the underside of his balls. He shuddered, and groaned aloud, then bent his cock towards me, and I felt wetness spurt across my face even as I saw his balls quiver.

"Are you alright?" he asked, flopping down beside me, pulling the covers back over us as he kissed the side of my face.

I wanted to laugh, giggle, shake, shout his name aloud, but instead I raised my hand to my face and started to rub his semen into the skin of my lips until I could taste him. "I'm fine," I told him. "Better than fine," I insisted, turning to kiss him, leaving a faint shimmering film on the skin of his cheek. "You're fucking amazing."

"I'm not," he started to mutter, but I mashed my mouth against his, kissing away the self doubt as I wrapped my arms around his neck. I'd never felt this light and giggly after sex with Chris, I'd always felt heavy and tired and just wanted to go to sleep. But holding Brandon, lying naked in his arms, I felt like I could take on the world. I pressed my whole body against him, just delighting in the feel of his skin against mine.

"Brandon, Brandon, Brandon," I told him, depositing little kisses, one on each of his eyelids, then one on the tip of his nose.

"Stop it." Reaching up, he pushed my hair out of my face, then deposited a single kiss in the centre of my forehead. Then he lowered himself down onto his elbow and just lay propped up, watching me as if trying to memorise me. "Are you gonna want supper?" he asked eventually, almost disappointingly prosaically.

"I'm just going to eat you up," I replied, sinking my teeth teasingly into his forearm.

"Not enough meat on me. All fat," he sighed, thumping his stomach.

"Tasty fat," I agreed, moving my hand lower and pinching gently at the adorable plumpness of his belly. I loved the way he looked naked, the soft swell of pink skin around his stomach and his butt, like a skinny boy gone softly to seed.

"Are you hungry, is what I'm asking?"

"I'm hungry for you," I replied lasciviously, wrapping my legs around him and pulling him closer.

"Knock it off, Charley, I couldn't right now. Give me another hour or two at least." I couldn't resist trying to crinkle the edges of that mouth as he tried to keep his face serious.

"What about your super-tantric naked yoga sex breathing? Wouldn't that work?" I teased playfully.

"You're impossible," he laughed, flopping back onto the mattress and covering his face with his hands so I wouldn't see him grin. "Can you never be serious? Does everything have to be just a laugh with you?"

I rolled up onto my elbow and looked down at him gravely. "Brandon, life is serious enough. Horrible shit happens all the time, wars, crime, poverty, people getting born, people dying, hearts getting broken. If I can't relax, and joke and have a good laugh when I'm lying in bed naked with a handsome man next to me, when can I?"

But a shadow passed across his face, even as he leaned up to kiss me. "The morning comes soon enough, Charley," he sighed cryptically.

I almost felt sorry for the man. "Alright, Brandon. Yes, I'm hungry. I worked up a fearsome appetite shovelling your driveway. Now go in the kitchen and make me a sandwich, bitch," I teased.

"Impossible," he muttered, climbing from the bed and digging around in his cupboard until he located a dressing gown. "Absolutely impossible. Crazy bitch in my bed." 

"You love it."

His whole face lit up with a blissful grin as he turned back to me. "I do." Bending down, he lent over me and kissed me, properly this time, on the lips. "Wait here, I'll be back in a minute." He lit a second candle off the first, and carried it through into the other room, and I watched until the light flickered away around the corner.

Flopping back on the bed, I stretched out, feeling my bruised muscles protesting both the heavy labour that morning, and the energetic sex that afternoon - not to mention being nearly buried alive. What a fucking day. Was any of it real? What happened if this actually happened, what if Brandon and I got together? I tried to imagine what making music with him would be like, now that we knew what it was like to actually fuck one another? Would it make it better? Worse? I couldn't imagine that it would make it anything but better, knowing that he did exactly that same thing, knitting his eyebrows together as he screwed up his nose, both when he was really feeling a bit of music, and when he was working his way towards an orgasm. I tried to imagine if it would make the supper club dinners weirder or better if we came and left together - alright, that might make Moira feel a bit like a third wheel, but it wasn't like she ever talked to me much at them anyway, so wrapped up in Paul she was. I couldn't believe that the rest of our little gang didn't already know how Brandon and I felt about each other, it seemed obvious now, the way that we stared and smouldered and hung on one another's words. They probably all thought we already were at it. I smiled and reached up to the headboard of his bed, wondering what the hell was taking him so long.

Climbing from the bed, I picked up one of his flannel shirts and wrapped myself in it, pulled on a pair of his socks and shuffled through to the kitchen to find him. "Aw, no, no, don't come in yet, you'll ruin the surprise..." he complained, trying to shield his hands with his body.

"What are you doing? What is taking you so long?" Raising myself up on my tip-toes, I peered up over his shoulders to see him hand toasting a piece of bread between two candles. "Oh my god, you are the most in..."

"Insane man, I know," he sighed. "I was trying to toast your name into one of them, but I only got as far as C-H-A before I ran out of bread."

"I was going to say inventive," I laughed and kissed him gently on the cheek. "Do you have anything to drink?"

"Well, we're out of tea, and there's definitely no more Jameson's, but there might be some Coronas left in the fridge." I loved the cosy hum of domesticity as he made the supper and I fixed the drinks, cutting up slices of lime and pushing them through into the bottles. "Come on, let's go back to bed, before you catch your death of cold."

"If I nearly die again, will you fuck me senseless again?"

For a moment, he looked outraged, but then he realised that I was teasing him, and just smiled. "No. I'd prefer you to be fully alive when I fuck you again."

Yes. Yesyesyesyesyesyes my heart said, even as he chased me down the hall, threatening to spank me. And for the rest of the evening, we got to play at being the perfect couple, eating hummus and broccoli sandwiches in half-toasted pita bread, drinking room temperature Coronas, and singing one another silly songs to the accompaniment of a badly tuned acoustic guitar. It made me happy, how sweetly our voices harmonised on the choruses. Yes, this was going to work. Playing music with him was actually _better_ now that we'd fucked each other.

And when I put down the guitar, he moved towards me, with a spark in his eye, and gently picked up my foot, ever so temptingly peeling off the sock before placing a nibbling little kiss on the tip of my toes, on the ball of my foot, on my heel, up my ankle, up my calf, under my knee, and up the inside of my thigh until his mouth was buried inside my pussy, his tongue lazily flicking at my clitoris until I thought I was going to explode. He fucked me from behind, that night, his arms hooked up under my shoulders, holding onto the headboard of the bed to stop it banging into the wall, he was thrusting into me so roughly, my body singing with pleasure even as I cried aloud, shouting his name as I came, until he grabbed me by the hair and pulled my face around to kiss me, losing my breath, he made me so dizzy as he spurted across my stomach.

"I'm sorry," he panted, as we lay reeling, catching our breaths, holding hands beside one another on the pillows, faces inches apart, staring into one another's contented, post-orgasmic eyes. "I will buy condoms tomorrow - or as soon as the shops open again."

"It doesn't matter," I told him, nuzzling my way into his arms so I could sleep with my head on his chest again. "We have all the time in the world."

\-----

I was woken the next morning by the bleating of the phone. "Shit, I hope that's the electric company," Brandon muttered as he crawled to answer it. There was a vague murmuring at the other end, as Brandon nodded vaguely. "Uh-huh. Yeah. OK, thank you, sir. Thanks for letting us know."

"Was it them?" I asked, pulling him back under the covers and wrapping my arms around him.

"Yeah. Said we should have power restored at some point this morning... Now where were we?" He was pushing his way between my legs, his mouth reaching down to try and raise my nipples to life. "Oh good morning... yes, indeed, it is a good morning in here, nice and wet..." he teased, and just as he worked his cock inside me, there was a crackle, and the lights popped back on, and the television hummed to life.

"Wow, I've heard of the earth moving beneath my feet, and stars tumbling down, but that's the first time anyone's made me see Sesame Street."

"Honey," said Brandon, raising himself up on his elbows. "I'm going to make you see the whole damn Muppet Show, if you give me half a chance..." 

"Make it Fraggle Rock, and I'll think about it," I breathed, tickling the back of his ribs where I knew he was most sensitive, but the phone rang again.

"God damn ConEd, can't they see I'm trying to make love to my woman?" he muttered, rolling off me and reaching for the phone. "Yes, sir, the power's back on, thanks for letting us know," he announced, but as he listened for a reply, his entire face fell, turning completely white, as if he had just had news of someone's death.

"What? What is it?" I asked, reaching out to him, but he pushed my hand off his thigh.

"It's Moira," he announced, handing me the phone.

"Oh, you had me going there for a minute," I laughed and took the phone, but he climbed off the bed, looking genuinely shaken, reaching for his dressing gown then stumbling through out into the hall. "Moira, sweetie, darling, how are you?"

"So I hear you had a power cut?" Moira asked.

"If that's Oirish for a blackout, yes. But trust me, we found other ways to make each other see stars." I lowered my voice so Brandon couldn't hear me gloating over exactly how happy I was.

"You didn't!" Moira shrieked.

"We did. Twice. And we were about to make it three times when you bloody rang," I whispered, craning my neck to make sure that Brandon wasn't coming back into the room.

"I'm so happy for you both. It's only taken you how many months? Well, anyway, I was going to tell you that the L train was running again, and ask when you were coming home, but I won't expect you until some time next week. Do let me know if you're bringing him with you, though, so I can get the knickers off the radiator."

"Will do, sweetie, darling," I assured her, flopping back on the bed and running my fingers through my hair.

"Oh god, I can just hear it in your voice, you're in lovey-lovey-love-love land," she laughed, half aghast, but half pleased.

"The love-iest of love-love lands," I agreed.

Moira, of course, couldn't resist bursting into the Pixies song. "La la love you," she sung, then did all the voices. "I love you - I LOVE YOU! _I love you._ I do."

"La la love you too, sweetie darling, I'll see you when I see you." I did some air kisses and mwah-mwah noises and hung up, then turned to see Brandon staring at me with a completely horrified expression on his face. "What is it, what's the matter, sweetie-darling?" Oh shit, I had to stop that when I spoke to Brandon, he was clearly not an Ab Fab fan from the expression of devastated confusion on his face.

"You didn't tell her..." he said, very quietly.

"Errrrrrrrr..." I drawled, trying to figure out whether he had wanted me to tell other people yet, or if we were supposed to be some kind of secret. "I did?"

"You're lying." His voice shook. "Please don't fucking lie to me. Whatever happens, I cannot stand being lied to. Do not start this, by starting lying to me."

OK, don't get fucking weird on me, Brandon. Maybe I wasn't supposed to tell anyone. I wish'd he'd tell me these things before he went all moody about them. Fine, I hadn't told her. "OK, I lied. I didn't tell her." Standing up slowly, I started to gather some clothes together from his chest of drawers. "Look, if the electricity is back on, that means there's hot water again, right? I'm going to take a shower while you calm down, OK?"

He just stared at me, his eyes huge, as I carried the ball of clothes out through the passage into the bathroom. I checked my old clothes, still lying on the radiator, but they hadn't even begun to thaw out, let alone dry. What the fuck had got into Brandon? I knew his moods were changeable, sometimes so much so that I wondered if he had a mild case of bipolar disorder, but this was fucking weird. Never mind, I'd just take a shower, and act like nothing had happened, and when I went out to the kitchen again, he'd probably be smiling and laughing again and trying to spell my name in cheerios in my breakfast bowl. I hoped.

But when I emerged, clean and dressed, Brandon was sitting in the kitchen, staring into the dregs of a cup of tea. There was a full cup opposite him, but it had gone cold. He could barely meet my eye as I sat down with a fresh cup. "Charley..." His voice was breaking. "I can't do this."

"Can't do what?" I tried to say calmly, though inside, I was panicking.

"This. You and me. What we've been doing. We can't go on doing this." He thumped the kitchen table for emphasis as he spoke.

"Why. Not."

"You know all the reasons," he moaned, tossing his head impetuously. "Don't make me insult you by spelling it out."

"No." My voice was cracking now, my self-confidence ebbing away, but my voice, instead of sounding heartbroken, sounded like a tempestuous little girl stamping her feet. "You can't just break up with me and not give me a reason."

"We're not breaking up," Brandon insisted, despite the fact that I could still see one of my hairs stuck to his cheek with god knows what body fluid. "We haven't even started. And I'm saying, we _can't_ start this."

"It's already started," I insisted pedantically. Don't you dare take this away from me, Brandon, don't you dare.

"We can still stop it, there's still time not to do this. You can just go home, and this didn't happen. You got stranded at my house, in the snow, and it was just 24 hours that won't count."

"No!" I repeated, my voice shooting up the octave as what he was suggesting truly sunk in.

"Please don't make a scene," he begged. "Can we just do this gently, and politely, and reasonably. There's too much at stake, not to be adults about this."

"I'm not the one making a scene!" I insisted, then dropped my voice as I realised I was getting shrill. This wasn't fair, he was the one ripping out my heart, then castigating me for being hurt.

"We can't do this," Brandon repeated, his face twisting with pain and what looked like jealousy, even as he spoke. "It isn't fair. We have to stop it, now, while we still can. Before we get used to it, before it becomes a habit."

"You can't just not do it. That isn't fair, to end something that could be as as good as this... It's so good, isn't it Brandon? You feel it too, don't you?"

As he looked at me, his lower lip trembling, something seemed to crack in his face. "Oh god yes, it's been good. You have no idea how good."

"I have every idea," I told him, dropping to my knees in front of him. "I was there too, you know. Remember me? The girl naked on top of you?"

He whimpered slightly. "Oh god I remember. How can I ever forget?"

"Well, you're supposed to be so clever. Thank, Brandon. How? There's got to be a way to make this work."

"How?" he blustered, looking around wildly as if the answer to his dilemma was written in one of the corners of his ceiling. "What are you going to do? How are you going to make this work? You can't just go back there, I won't have it. I won't stand for it, that isn't fair. What are you going to do? Are you just going to move in here, then?"

"Move in here?" I stared at him, uncomprehending. One minute he was talking about breaking up with me, the next he was asking me to move in with him? Everyone was right, he was completely fucking nuts. "Are you crazy? There's not even the space, for a start..." I looked about wildly, at the overstuffed mess of his kitchen, wondering why I'd picked that, as opposed to the far more obvious well, we barely know each other, we've only just been fucking for two days, and also, we're trying to be in a band together.

"Oh, of course there's not the space," Brandon ranted, raising one arm above his head, gesturing around the room like a crazy person. "I'm just a boy, a lousy stinking boy who doesn't know how to even put up curtains. And I don't have custom cabinets, and built-in custom kitchen units, and whatever else you... you..."

I backed away slowly, trying to make sense of the confused rush of words coming out of his mouth. "I don't see what our kitchen units have to do with... you not wanting to be with me."

"Of course it's not the kitchen units," he confessed, dropping to his knees on the mattress. "It's... you're really just going to go back there, and treat me like some little thing on the side..."

I shook my head, I just didn't understand how he could just blow hot and cold like this. Was this what Brandon was like, this whole all-or-nothing routine. "Well, I'm not going to just up and move in with you, no. That's nuts."

"No," he insisted, shaking his head like a broken man. "I can't do this. I've been here before, and I _know_ , I cannot do this." He looked up at me pleading, like he thought I could stop this, but I hadn't a clue how. "I'm sorry, Charley, but this is not going to be, not like this. You have to choose."

"Choose?" I asked, looking at him like he was nuts. Choose what? Choose between the relationship and the band? Between his cluttered, badly heated studio apartment, and Moira's... kitchen cabinets? What the fuck was he on about? He kept looking at me with that desperate, pleading expression, but he still wouldn't give anything away. "Fuck this, I am not a mindreader," I finally spat, and picked up my bag, and fled down the stairs.

Down in the freezing cold studio, I carefully started to gather up all my things. My pedals were all still lying out there, where I'd left them, the previous afternoon, the input jacks unplugged to save power. Savagely, I pulled my guitar from the rack and stuffed it into its case, then went about boxing up all the effects units and coiling the cables.

"What are you doing?" Brandon asked, sounding suddenly very panicked.

"What does it look like I'm doing? I'm taking my things and I'm going, which is what you clearly want me to do. Permanently."

"Wait... wait... are you telling me you're quitting the band? Because I didn't want to be with you? That's... what is this? Blackmail?"

And what exactly kind of blackmail was it, saying, move in with me on our third day together or we break up, I wanted to throw back in his face, but I shook my head and refused to be baited by him. "It is what it is."

"But we have a gig this Friday!" he insisted, moving over towards me as if he could physically stand between me and my guitar case. "We signed a contract with Daddy-Os."

"You have a gig, and you have a contract. I signed nothing."

His eyes were desperate as he moved towards me, placing one hand on each of my upper arms, a gesture I would have found comforting only half an hour ago, but now felt like a trap. "But what about the tour? Do you want me to call Paul and tell him that you've quit? Do you want me to call Josh... and Alyssa... how do you think they'll take the news? They'll be fucking gutted, Charley."

I stared at him resentfully as my predicament dawned on me. Alyssa was pretty much one of two friends I had, outside the band, in this entire city. Josh would be so disappointed, he'd never speak to me again. And how could I tell him the reason? Because I fucked Brandon and he went completely psycho on me? "You're an asshole," I finally managed to spit.

"I've told you that since day one," he sighed wearily, as both of us deflated, the rage washed out of us. And then his voice went ragged as he lost all pretence at anything except vulnerable honesty. "Please don't quit the band. It is the only thing that has ever mattered to me. You can hit me, smash me, use me, break my heart, but it's only flesh and blood. But if you break up my band, that is my soul. All I want, is for this band to work. I am prepared to sacrifice everything for that. Our friendship, our... relationship or whatever the hell it is that you want from me - I am prepared to give all of that up, sacrifice all of it, but the music that we make together, that means more to me than the whole world. That means more to me than any... _fuck_ ever could. That's why I didn't want to get with you, that's why I didn't want to complicated things, and get involved with this whole... mess. This band is more important to me than anything in my life. Please do not take that away from us."

And at that moment, I looked at him, and I knew he was crazy. He'd already smashed up his relationship with his brother over his band. He was perfectly capable of sacrificing our newly born almost-love for his music. This pain, I felt, I wasn't getting my heart broken, that was the bullet I was dodging, grazing past my chest. "OK, Brandon, you win. I won't quit. But things have to change between us."

"That is exactly what I've been saying to you all along." He moved away from me as I put the bag of pedals back down, next to the guitar case. "Let me find you a pair of shoes, yours are still soaked." Going out to the hall, he dug about until he found a pair of rubber boots. "Good old English Wellies. We bought these the summer we played Glastonbury, and it bucketed down with rain." He paused as I pulled them on. "You'd absolutely love Glastonbury, it's a shame we'll miss it while we're on tour."

Tour. Oh god, I really had agreed to spend three months in a tourbus with this insane man. I looked around, but he had my coat already.

"Let me walk you to the L."

"If you insist."

We walked in silence, listening to the steady drip-drip-drip of the melting snow, the water already pooling in the street, though the sidewalks were still impassable. He even walked me down into the station, waiting and watching me through the grate as I ran for the train that was just pulling into the station.

And just at the last moment, before I got on the train, I turned around and saw him watching me, so I turned around and I mouthed "You're an asshole, Brandon Curtis" though the noise of the train took the words from my lips.

He just smiled wryly, and waved his hand, nodded, and mouthed back "I know."


	9. ~~~SPOILERS~~~ I Never Thought To Ask ~~~SPOILERS~~~

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Supplemental chapter, telling the story so far from Brandon's POV.
> 
> DO NOT READ IF YOU DO NOT WANT SPOILERS
> 
> You can skip this and carry on reading from the next chapter (back to Charley's POV) if you would rather wait until the end and find out the Big Misunderstanding at the same time that Brandon and Charley do. Or you can read this and find out a bit more back story about why Brandon is acting like such a freak (if you haven't figured it out already, as someone clearly has!) and roll your eyes at both of their behaviour for the rest of the story.
> 
> Warning: contains very mild implied Brandon/Interpol slash

 

Brandon walked home, his mind in a complete fog of disarray, and collapsed into bed. Oh god, that was a bad move. His bed still smelled like her. But then again, everything still smelled like her - his clothes, his fingers that he'd had pushed up inside her only a few hours ago... no doubt his cock still smelled like her, too. How could things have gone to such shit in only a few hours? No, that was stupid. He'd known all along what the situation was, all the reasons he shouldn't have done it, and he'd done it anyway.

Moaning like he was in pain, he rolled over onto his side and stared at the telephone. He shouldn't just lie here, like a wounded beast, he should ring someone, talk to someone about it. His hand twitched towards the receiver and he thought about ringing his sister - she was the closest in age, to him, she'd always understood him and his stupid, mixed-up problems the best. But then he remembered the last time he'd spoken to her, and the guilt trip she'd given him over  Ben, and his hand fell away from the receiver. More than anything, he wanted to call Charley, tell her, look, I'm sorry, I'll put up with anything, just come back and hold me, make this aching go away. But then it struck him, the thought that Moira might pick up the phone, and he felt consumed by a wave of guilt. No. Sort this out yourself, he told himself and rolled over, away from the phone.

He forced himself to do what the stoic philosophers had taught him, back in the navy, when his commanding officer had realised he was out of his mind with grief and homesickness, and told him to read Seneca and Marcus Aurelius. Calm your mind, clear your head, catalogue your thoughts, and take stock of yourself.

Charley. There was only one thought in his head, and it was Charlotte Wildwood. He mentally pictured her face, that naughty half-smile hovering beneath the black wave of her hair, and he instantly felt better. No, stop it. It was like a drug, it felt good at first, but then he started to crave it, and then it turned him inside-out with the angst and pain of the impossibility of it all.

He could still remember the first time he'd seen her, guitar slung over one arm, gig-bag slung over the other, blowing her hair out of face and looking distinctly unimpressed as Paul had tried to chat her up. Of course Paul had been trying to chat her up, it was almost like a reflex with him, he flirted with girls casually, almost compulsively, picking them up and trying to sleep with them the way another man might offer to shake hands. And Charley had just looked at him like he was a bug, like he was something unpleasant stuck to the bottom of her shoe. Brandon had just wanted to laugh. Here was this girl, this unfeasibly attractive girl, all cheekbones like geometry and eyes like sin, standing in the vestibule of the Fire Station, completely unimpressed by Paul. 

Brandon had been watching her - well, checking her out, maybe. She was very attractive, tall, slim, shoulder-length black hair framing a long, thin face dominated by huge eyes - it was her eyes that made her so beautiful, Brandon thought to himself. No, her lips, those wide, sensual lips that couldn't help spilling open into a grin. It seemed impossible for Charley to keep a straight face for more than about a minute and a half. Her complete lack of taking anything seriously utterly frustrated him, and yet it was the thing about her that he loved the most, the perfect antidote to his endless overthinking. But no, it was definitely her eyes that were the prettiest thing about her, how her eyes stayed serious and wise despite her laughing mouth. That strange light sea-colour that was neither green nor grey nor blue, but somehow all three together... a New Order song popped inconveniently into his head, _oh you've got green eyes, oh you've got blue eyes, oh you've got grey eyes, and I've never met anyone quite like you before_. Well, that much was true.

And then the unthinkable had happened. She had turned around as if noticing him for the first time, stood back as he was behind Paul, and her big sea-coloured eyes had widened, her nostrils had flared, and she had done a sharp intake of breath. Their eyes had locked, and something in the dumb, lizard back-brain of Brandon's skull had said, _She wants you_. Brandon's human-brain, his smarter brain, had instantly evaluated the message, and dismissed it. Don't be fucking stupid. Girls that look like that don't want guys like you, they want football players, movie stars, hedge fund managers. And yet she had carried on looking at him with those extraordinary eyes, her lips twisting up in a naughty smile like she was thinking something both really funny and indescribably dirty.

He'd warned Paul off, and made an excuse to go upstairs, trying to pull himself together as he made a pot of tea. That guitarist, that really good guitarist they'd already practically made the decision to work with on the strength of her demo alone, was a startlingly pretty girl with a body like a model and a face like an androgynous Renaissance angel. It was torture. He looked at her mouth and wanted to put his tongue in it. He looked at her body and wanted to put his cock in it. And yet he had to sit and talk to her about effects pedals and guitar tone - OK, she knew her stuff, she knew more about guitar processing units than anyone except maybe his little brother. And as he'd been sitting there at his organ, trying really hard _not_ to think about how much he wanted to take her upstairs and bang the shit out of her, Josh had come in and started talking about robot porno movies.

It was too much. He'd wanted to punch his drummer. The drummer he'd known since he was a kid and loved like a brother - OK, most of the time he wanted to punch at least 2 of his 3 brothers, too, but still. Josh had looked at Brandon, and looked at the girl, setting up her guitar pedals all over the floor, and just _known_ how badly Brandon wanted to be with her. Sure, Paul was worse - as she'd bent down to fiddle with her pedals, Paul had cricked his neck to check out her ass, and Brandon had been about to rip him a new one, when he had looked over and seen - holy fucking shit, her ass. She was wearing tight black jeans that clung to her long, powerful thighs - what Paul called bike-riding thighs - and Brandon's breath had caught in the back of his throat like he couldn't breath. All he could think about was those thighs wrapped around his neck - hell, he'd had those thighs wrapped around his neck only a few hours ago, his face buried deep in her pussy, tongue pressed against her clit, and the way her thigh muscles tightened against his cheeks when she came, yes it was everything he'd imagined and fucking _more_.

Just fucking stop it, Brandon told himself, yet again. You call yourself a feminist, you make noises about respecting women, not reducing them to pieces of meat, so just pull yourself together and stop thinking about fucking your guitarist. He breathed in and out quickly several times, expelling his thoughts, then took a deep breath and held it, trying to still his mind.

She'd blown them away, right from the start. She hadn't even asked for notation or tab or chord charts, like the other guitarists - the supposed pros - had done. She'd just closed her eyes, listened with her perfect fucking pitch, and launched into a riff like she'd been playing with them for a dozen years. And it was in that hour, as they played together, their notes blending into one another until he could no longer tell where his keyboard ended and her guitar began, that he had moved away from bald-faced lust, and actually fallen head over heels in love.

They'd gone through the motions with the other two guitarists, but he and Josh had already both made up their minds before she'd even left the room. The first guy was too fucking loud, obliterating everything with the forcefulness of his playing. Sure, you had to be loud to make yourself heard over the top of Josh, but this guy just seemed to suck all the sound of our the room, even the noise of the drums, with the sheer volume of his paying. The second guy was an over-player - one of those guys who never played one note where three would do, trills and glissandos all over everything until Brandon felt himself sympathising with the King who'd told Mozart _too many fucking notes_. Charley had had everything, she had the chops and the power, but she also had the subtlety and the grace. She was the first guitarist - since Benjamin, really - who had made his music come alive. He had to have her.

As a _guitarist_. Just as a fucking guitarist, he'd meant.

And yet Paul wouldn't let up with the ribbing, later that night as they gathered in their favourite restaurant down on Rivington, waiting for Kessler to turn up so they could order dinner. They'd made the decision in about thirty seconds flat, before the drinks had even arrived.

"That girl was clearly the best," Paul had announced. "If you don't snap her up, you're stupid."

"Complete agreement from me," Josh nodded, sucking down his beer. He always worked up a powerful appetite playing drums, and seemed irritated at Daniel's uncharacteristic lateness. "She's perfect. Her playing is bang-on what we were looking for, and she'll look great on stage, too. Right, Brandon?"

Brandon hadn't really heard him, he was still thinking about her body, her thighs, her hips, and specifically the way that she bucked her hips slightly when she played, almost as if she was trying to fuck her Jazzmaster from behind. And the way that she treated that Jazzmaster, that mixture of tenderness and ferocity, Jesus Christ, he imagined she fucked like a beast.

"I said... Brandon, what do you think?"

"What?" Brandon's head snapped up, completely lost in his fantasies of being the sexual subject of the disrespect with which she treated her guitar.

"We already know what Brandon thinks," Paul teased. "Brandon just thinks she's seriously attractive."

"Who's seriously attractive?" Kessler demanded, finally slipping into the last seat at their table.

"At last!" sighed Josh, looking around and waving his menu at the waitress. "Can we order food now? I am starved. Kessler, where the fuck have you been?"

Daniel sighed long-sufferingly, rolling his puppydog eyes. "I have been in emergency talks with our dearly beloved bass-player, persuading him not to quit for the third time this month."

"So let the little cocksucker quit. Brandon will play bass on the tour since you'll be along already, won't you, Bran?" Paul seemed quite sure of that, even as Brandon frowned.

Three pairs of eyes turned towards him, as Brandon swallowed nervously. He was under no delusions as to why Secret Machines had been invited to open on this tour. They wanted him as their new bass-player. Kessler had been dropping hints for months, and as subtle as Kessler thought he was being, Brandon wasn't stupid. 

It wasn't that he didn't want to play bass for Interpol but... no, OK, that was just the start of it, though really, he did _not_ want to just play bass for anyone, let alone Interpol. How could he possibly explain that to Kessler? He had wasted half his life playing bass in other people's bands, back in Texas, because he'd been young, because he'd been nervous, because he'd been insecure. So he'd been the backing man, he'd played bass for people who seemed like a sure-thing at the time. And people had kept telling him, you should really do something with your own songs, because they are miles better than the songwriters you keep playing with. And for ten years, he ignored them, biding his time, learning the ropes and the pitfalls of the music industry. And when he'd finally had the courage to make the break, and launched himself off on his own skills, one last ditch make or break effort, his songs had carried his band far, far further than any of those sure-thing artists, none of whom had ever left Texas in the end. So even after everything that had happened, with Benjamin leaving, with his band getting dropped from the label, did he want to give it up to play bass for someone else's band? No, no he did not.

And that wasn't even getting into his feelings about Dengler. Oddly, he got along with Dengler just fine, though it seemed like he was the only one in his social circle who did. He could still remember the first time he'd met the tall, lanky weirdo with the greased-down haircut. It had been in the basement of some dingy club with a venue downstairs - Under Acme? Fez? Pyramid Club? It didn't matter, it was a dive. Carlos had walked over to him, and he'd instantly recognised those outlandish clothes for exactly what they were. A uniform, worn as a disguise. He'd known enough people that had worn a uniform in that way, in the Navy, that Carlos's outfit hadn't fazed him in the slightest. Carlos had wanted to know if he could borrow his Ampeg bass head "Sure thing," said Brandon, without even looking up from his book. Hating to be ignored, Carlos had tipped the cover of the book forward with one finger. _Stoic Philosophers: From Zeno to Epictetus_. Was he a student, he had asked. Nope, Brandon had told him, he was just interested. And the pair of them had sat down and had a discussion about Stoicism versus Epicureanism for about two hours, the first of many long, interesting discussions with Carlos that he'd had since. He knew Carlos could be a nightmare. He'd seen him do it to other people. But for some reason, Carlos treated him with respect, and Brandon returned that respect. So no, he wasn't going to kick his friend out of his own band, even if Kessler and Paul would stab their own grandmothers for a gig. And besides, he didn't want to be in a band with people who could kick out a friend. Dengler had to leave of his own accord, he didn't want to be the reason. And the way Dengler kept talking about it, he knew it would happen sooner or later.

"Brandon, you know we'd love to have you," Kessler reminded him, pulling him out of his reverie of memory, before turning to the waitress. "Mushroom stroganoff... there's no meat in that, correct? Not even in the gravy? Are you sure? Have you checked with the chef? Right, I'll have that and a small salad, dressing on the side, blue cheese - _not_ ranch dressing, just give me vinaigrette if you don't have blue cheese. On the side. Romaine lettuce, not Iceberg. And no onions in the salad, not even scallions." 

"Carlos will come round. He always does," Brandon shrugged and quickly looked over the menu before ordering a chargrilled steak, no special instructions, to the great relief of the poor waitress, still scribbling down the details of Kessler's pickiness. That was, of course, the other half of the problem - he wasn't sure he could ever be in a band with as fussy a perfectionist as Daniel.

"Anyway, who's seriously attractive?" Daniel turned back to the table with a self-satisfied smile.

"Secret Machines' new guitarist," Paul nodded, grinning that wolfish grin as he recalled Charley.

Brandon felt a sudden surge of annoyance that might almost have been jealousy. "She's not our new guitarist yet," he insisted. "She hasn't even agreed to join the band."

"Brandon, the way you have been mooning over her all night, you have got to either ask that girl to join your band, or ask that girl to marry you," Paul teased.

Feeling his face lighting up like a stop signal, Brandon knew it was pointless to try to deny his crush. As the blush spread across his ears and all the way down to his chest, he lapsed into a positively foolish grin. "Can you imagine being married to a girl like that? A girl that amazing? Yeah, that'd be pretty sweet."

Daniel stared at him, slightly taken aback. "Just how attractive is this girl?"

Josh laughed, diving into the breadrolls as the waitress deposited a basket on their table. "She's pretty cute."

"Like, on a scale of 1 to 10?" Daniel persisted, sniffing his glass of wine to make sure the bouquet was crisp enough before taking a sip.

"Twelve," Brandon confessed.

"Aw, he has it bad," Paul taunted, clapping his friend on the back. "Guys, we've got to do something. Should we call the first meeting of the get-Brandon-Curtis-laid association here?"

"Fuck off," muttered Brandon, reaching for his beer, though he was already slightly drunk, too much beer on an empty stomach, thanks to Kessler's lateness. "I mean, is this really such a good idea, being in a band with someone..." He had been about to say _I'm this much attracted to,_ but switched it at the last minute. "...someone that attractive?"

"Oh yeah," Daniel agreed. "Never underestimate the importance of having bandmates who _look_ right, as well as sounding right. Do you think we'd put up with Dengler and the shit he pulls, if he wasn't so... _alluring_ to members of the opposite sex? Having an attractive female guitar player... that will double your audience overnight." He seemed to think about it for a split second before turning to Paul. "Do you think we can get an attractive girl bass-player? This girl that Brandon's too in love with to ask to join his band, do you think she can play bass, as well?"

"Don't even think about it," snapped Brandon, provoking a peal of laughter from Paul.

"Just call her up and ask her out, Brandon. Just ask her to go for drinks."

"But I don't know anything about her," he protested, feeling his heart sinking. "She could have a boyfriend, she could... she could be married for all I know!"

"Not married," Paul pointed out helpfully. "No ring."

"What, do you check?"

"Always." He smirked and sipped his wine.

"I doubt she has a boyfriend," Josh added thoughtfully.

"How do you know?"

"She said she's just moved here from Chicago, about 3 months ago. No one just picks up and moves from Chicago to New York without a job, unless they're leaving something, or someone," Josh pointed out wisely. "And 3 months isn't long enough to meet a new boyfriend anyway."

"Well, not a serious one, anyway," Daniel interjected. "Still new enough for you to get in there, Brandon."

Ignoring Daniel, Brandon stared at his one sensible friend. "What do you think, Josh? What should we do? Like, is this going to fuck with our chemistry, if we get a new guitarist, and suddenly there's all this... sexual tension in the room?"

Josh stared back, chewing thoughtfully on a crust of bread. "If you pass on hiring the best guitarist, that we have even heard, since Ben left, because you can't get over your desire to fuck her, than I will never, ever speak to you again, Bran."

Looking down at the plate of meat that the waitress was depositing in front of him, Brandon wished he hadn't drunk quite so much so quickly. "Can you call her? I don't trust myself to."

"Look, I've got an idea," announced Paul. "Why don't you invite her to our dinner party next week?"

"What, Alyssa's Mad Men themed dinner party?" Josh laughed. "Oh my god, she will completely get the wrong idea of what we're all about if she comes to one of those parties and we're all in suits and the girls are all in ballgowns."

But suddenly Brandon saw the sense in what Paul had suggested. "Yeah, but it's a formal social occasion. So it's totally kosher if you ask her if she has a boyfriend or partner or whatever that she wants to bring, so Alyssa knows how many places to set at the table. Paul, you're a genius. It's perfect."

"And I'm expected to ask her?"

"Alyssa's your wife."

"Brandon, you're insane."

"I know."

"No, it's a brilliant idea," Daniel agreed. "Well done, Paul. Seedy and underhanded, yet completely legit. It has your signature all over it."

"Thank you, Dan, I'll take that as a compliment, coming from you. Are you coming, then?"

"Nah, I'm in La Bella Roma for the weekend, as usual."

 

\-----

 

As per usual, Josh had fumbled the job, and got it only half right. "Well, do you want the good news or the bad news first?"

Brandon felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. "Um, the good news?"

"Definitely no boyfriend. In fact, she was quite irate at the suggestion."

Brandon felt his heart soaring. He had a chance, then. "What's the bad news?" Suddenly his heart lurched again. What if she didn't want to join the band? What if she'd found another group that she liked better? Brandon felt his whole future disappearing down the wrong end of a telescope, like he might have to go back and beg Kessler to see if that bassist spot was still going.

"She's bringing _someone_. A friend, she said, but she said the word friend so cagily I don't think it's platonic. She wouldn't say any more, and had that laugh in her voice that girls get when they're up to something."

"Oh god."

"Kessler's right, though, she can't have been with this dude for very long. She's totally up for joining the band, though - that means you've got two months and then a whole tour to woo her away from him."

 

Brandon had been on tenterhooks for the week leading up to the party. He kept talking himself into it, then talking himself out of it again. He'd had a hundred conversations in his head with Charley, about the mysterious boyfriend-who-wasn't-a-boyfriend. One minute, he would be planning to look deep into her eyes, watching for that same nostril-flare-catch-of-breath that meant she was into him, and just ask her, how serious is this guy... and how can I be more to you? The next minute, he'd lose his nerve, and resolve to just ask her to join the band, and nothing more. They could turn the sexual tension - if it wasn't entirely his imagination, which it probably was - into musical tension. And then he was back on Paul's balcony - no, better yet, Paul's roof, more isolated, more romantic, and he'd slide his arm casually around her shoulders for warmth, and look into her eyes, and ask her, so how badly did she want to be in his band? No! Absolutely not! Sleazy as all fuck. Never in a million years. He was just going to be a responsible adult, and sit her down, and take her by the hand and say, look, Charley, I really want you to be in this band, regardless of what your answer to this next question is, but, I really need to know, would you be the slightest bit interested in... in what? What did he want? What did he have to offer her? Will you fuck me? Will you be my girlfriend? Will you marry me and spend the rest of your life writing beautiful dronerock symphonies in my cosy makeshift studio? Will you just love me? Will you promise to look at me like you're impressed with me, that way you looked at me in my hallway, with your eyes widening, and your nostrils flaring, and your breath catching in your throat, will you look at me like _that_ , every morning for the rest of your life?

He was a mess, the day of the party. He'd had his good suit dry-cleaned, he'd polished his grandfather's pocket watch, and he'd even been to the barber to have a real, close, professional shave, and then to Paul's expensive hairdresser to have his hair washed properly and blowdried so that it sat bouncily on his shoulders. He dressed, and looked at himself in the mirror and thought he looked pretty good. Well, he wasn't sure if he looked like the kinda guy that a girl like Charley would go for, but he looked as good as he was ever going to look. Even Jacinta commented on how good he looked, though he had to shrug off her flattery and her flirtation in order to stay un-crazy for the evening. He poured himself a glass of whisky, and he lit himself a Cohiba, and he waited, his nerves shredding as he went over and over every potential conversation the two of them could have, in his head.

The doorbell rang, and Paul leapt up to open it. Brandon took a gulp of whisky and hoped for the best. And there was Charley, looking even more beautiful than he had remembered, dressed in an elegant silk suit that made her look like Marlene Dietrich, or maybe even Liza Minelli in Cabaret, with her gash of blood red lipstick and heavily lined eyes. Brandon had always had a thing for goth girls, and there she was, made up like a Bauhaus-loving goth girl with Cleopatra eyes. She had looked at him, and held his gaze, and arched one eyebrow, like if that wasn't an invitation, he didn't know what was, and this time it was him that widened his eyes and flared his nostrils and had to bite down on his lower lip to stop himself from losing his breath.

And it was then that he realised she was not alone. The look on Paul's face was priceless - he was positively leering. "You remember Charley. And this is Moira. Her..." He could not have put on a more theatrical stage whisper if he'd tried, and Brandon could hear the air-quotes, even if Paul at least had the dignity not to actually do them. "... _roommate_."

Two girls, one butch, with bobbed hair, wearing a suit, the other petite, femme-ish, with a cloud of coppery-gold hair and an earth mother air. They were even holding hands, arm in arm like a parody of a 50s couple. Brandon's heart broke, right down the middle. All those imagined conversations, they'd been in vain. The girl he loved was a lesbian.

People walked about the room, saying social things. Introductions were made, friendships were formed, drinks exchanged, but it was all Brandon could do to stay upright, feeling the room spinning around him. The girl he loved was gay. He could see that Paul was loving every minute of this - two lesbians, and both of them really fucking good-looking. For a second, his heart lurched even lower. Oh for the love of god, Paul, please behave. Don't do or say anything gauche, don't ask them to stay the night, don't ask if you can watch them, don't screw up everything, don't offend Charley so badly that she will never even speak to me again, let alone join my band.

Somehow he found himself making small talk with Charley, though he wasn't entirely sure how. She and Moira had known each other for a long time, over the internet, she'd said - so it wasn't just a casual, recent thing. In fact, it sounded to him like she'd left her last serious relationship for Moira. He was on his best behaviour, trying to radiate approval and acceptance, even as they talked about the tiny towns they'd grown up in. Growing up a lesbian in a tiny town in Indiana... no wonder she didn't advertise it. He didn't quite know how to come out and say it - hey, it's OK. I'm in favour of gay rights. I support equal marriage. I'm fine with you being a lesbian and all, it's just... it's just you've broken my fucking heart, Charley.

He was almost relieved when Paul cut in and started bullshitting with her about music, threatening to steal her for his solo project - thank fuck Brandon had at least had the foresight to get her to commit to joining the band before Paul started in. Though when Moira followed them, sticking to Charley's side like an overprotective, jealous girlfriend - no, not _like_ an overprotective, jealous girlfriend, _as_ an overprotective, jealous girlfriend - trying to drag her attention back from Paul, Brandon felt almost sick and had to go to the kitchen to get some air.

The kitchen was worse. Jacinta was staring at the lesbians with an almost predatory air. "Aren't they darling. Where on earth did you find them?"

"Jackie, just don't. Please." Brandon was not in the mood for this, he was in the mood to down the rest of the whisky bottle and go home.

"The little blonde one, she's Irish, isn't she? Delicious! Such a sexy accent. But it's the dark-haired one you fancy, isn't it? She's _so_ your type. You always did love those goth girls, didn't you? At least this one has good taste, and doesn't dress like Stevie fucking Nicks."

"Jacinta, please. Leave them alone."

"Don't be such a stick in the mud moralist, Brandon. We're doing you a favour, after all. Paul and I will have the little blonde one, that leaves you free to go after the brunette." The way she spoke had chilled him to the bone. How far she'd come since those innocent days when Brandon had first known her. She and Paul weren't just as bad as each other - they seemed to have actively made each other worse.

"I'm not even going to dignify that with an answer," Brandon sputtered, unable to even think of a comeback. It was just like being in a relationship with her all over again, she always had all the ammunition.

"Don't tell me you were hoping to have both of them to yourself," Jacinta teased, then abruptly looked up and called Paul over to help with the dinner. Ganging up on him, no doubt, thought Brandon - or worse, just to laugh at him. He slunk away, and sat on the other side of Moira, trying to protect them both from Paul, though he didn't dare sit next to Charley.

It was the most awkward dinner of his life. No, that wasn't entirely true. The most awkward dinner of his life had taken place 4 or 5 years earlier. He and Jacinta had still been living together in a walk-up in Greenpoint, and they'd had Paul and his then-girlfriend - oh god, he had actually, at this point, forgotten her name. Helen? Ellie? Emma? - round for dinner, well, really just a flimsy pretext to get together and take magic mushrooms and get really baked. The drugs had kicked in halfway through dinner, Paul and Jacinta and Helen-Ellie-Emma had started tripping their faces off, while Brandon's trip, stubbornly, refused to take off. Jacinta and Helen-Ellie-Emma wandered off to sit together on the floor, Helen-Ellie-Emma looking through picture books while Jacinta stared lovingly into the other girl's face, stringing words together, rhapsodising on how much more beautiful women were than men. Helen-Ellie-Emma looked over at Paul, who had worn his hair quite long in those days, so that he looked like a pretty young woman, laughed and disagreed. And at that point, Paul had gone over to sit by them, and god knew whose idea it was - probably Paul's, though Jacinta swore it was her own - but someone persuaded Jacinta and Helen-Ellie-Emma to start kissing one another.

Paul had been beside himself with excitement. He didn't just want to watch, he wanted to join in, and he would have turned the drugs-and-dinner-party into an orgy, except, well, Jacinta at that point still had some sense of loyalty left, and said she didn't really want to unless Brandon joined in. And Brandon... well, not only was he not tripping, but the mushrooms he had taken were seriously disagreeing with him, and it was all he could do, not to be sick.

Crawling on his hands and knees, Paul wandered over towards Brandon, still sitting at the dinner table, staring into the remains of his curry. He grabbed hold of Brandon's chair, pulled it around to face him, then climbed between his legs, cupped his face in his hands, and started to kiss him. It had been fucking weird. Brandon was too surprised at first to do anything, just letting his lips open and feeling Paul's tongue against his own. In theory, Brandon had nothing against homosexuality. In fact, given the right conditions - preferably David Bowie and a relaxing bottle of 20 year old single malt whisky - he might even be predisposed to try it. But at that moment, his stomach curdling with bad mushrooms, and his emotions curdling with sexual jealousy over Jacinta and what she was doing with Helen-Ellie-Emma, it was not turning him on, in fact Paul's two-day beard and his long, greasy hair falling in his face were very much a turn-off. He pushed Paul off him, and stumbled towards the bathroom to vomit up his dinner into the toilet. It was the mushrooms, he told himself again and again, not latent homophobia, and certainly not a knot of jealousy and inadequacy with regards to his girlfriend.

Jacinta had come undone, both literally - in a state of near complete nudity, rolling around on the floor with Helen-Ellie-Emma - and figuratively, spilling details of her life that Brandon had never known. She'd grown up in an unbelievably repressive religious household, she said. When she started modelling, at the age of 15, her father had called her a whore, told her she was going to hell for taking off her clothes in front of men, and beaten her so badly that her bruises had stopped her from doing swimsuit work for several weeks. She'd spent her entire life believing that sex was evil, and her body was corrupt, even as she made her living from showing off her corrupt flesh. Tonight, tripping her face off on mushrooms, she understood how fucked up and bullshit that was. She wanted to make up for lost time. She wanted to have all the sex she'd missed out on. She wanted to have sex with women, sex with men, sex with everyone. She would have sex with the entire fucking world, if she could fit them in her arms. Paul had laughed and egged her on - he didn't blame Paul really, Paul was tripping just as hard as everyone else, he was just tripping on his own libido - and urged her to have sex with Helen-Ellie-Emma, he wouldn't be jealous at all, he would enjoy it if he could watch and maybe beat off. Everyone was into it - everyone except Brandon, who sat there, feeling sick with the mushrooms, and sick with jealousy as Jacinta got Helen-Ellie-Emma off, then Helen-Ellie-Emma got Paul off. What the fuck was wrong with him? Paul was clearly having the time of his life, getting off, watching his girlfriend having sex with a beautiful woman. Brandon didn't see it that way. He didn't see why it made a difference if Jacinta was making love with a man or a woman, it still made him writhe with jealousy and insecurity inside.

They all sobered up the next day, said, whoa, what a crazy trip, that was wild, wasn't it, and went home. But Jacinta couldn't go back. The hunger in her had been awakened, and it was like she had something to prove. Brandon understood completely why she felt the way she did, he just had an awfully hard time accepting it. They tried to work out some agreement, they played at polyamory where Jacinta could fuck other girls but not boys, but it didn't make a difference to Brandon. He didn't want the threesomes that Jacinta seemed so desperately to crave. He wanted one girlfriend, not half a dozen. Cheating was cheating, whether it was with a man or a woman. Jacinta had laughed and called him old fashioned. They fought, they broke up, they got back together. Jacinta was like some crazy drug he couldn't quit. He went off on tour, he got back and found out that she'd left him, for good this time.

A few months later, Paul had called him and taken him out for drinks. He told Brandon quite breezily that he'd broken up with Helen-Ellie-Emma, who had become kind of a drag about his infidelities on tour, then sat down and asked completely seriously - he was thinking of getting involved with Jacinta, did Brandon have a problem with that? And he was actually asking, he had to respect Paul for that, he didn't tell him, or present it to him as fait accompli. He asked him, just like that, did he mind if he and Jacinta started something. And Brandon had just shrugged and wished them good luck. What else could he do?

Paul had winked, and told him they were having a completely open relationship, and said, hey, if Brandon even fancied a rematch on that threesome, to come by. Brandon laughed dryly and pretended it was all a joke, but in the pit of his stomach, he had felt that old nausea of bad mushrooms and sexual jealousy twisting in deeper like an infection that had never quite healed.

Did he begrudge Paul and Jacinta their weird relationship? Not at all. Paul seemed to actually get off on all the things that Brandon had been unable to stomach. But it meant that when he saw Paul and Jacinta playing their sexual games, swooping round Charley and Moira's relationship, he resolved to fight them at every step of the way. He cockblocked Paul at every opportunity. When Paul hived off Moira and took her up to the roof, he rounded up Charley and dragged her up after them. When the girls got so drunk that Jacinta started to playfully suggest that maybe they could crash at their pad, Brandon practically physically dragged Charley and Moira down to the L train. If he could have, he would have walked them to their door, and stood guard all night to make sure Moira didn't go creeping back to Paul and Jacinta.

 

Things with Charley had started to reach a level of normal. There was always that initial period of conflict, when you started a new band, or added a new member to an old band, where egos would vie for dominance. He recognised it in Charley the first day, when she kicked up a fuss about her effects pedals at rehearsal, and he gave in, let her have her head, creatively. That was a fight that wasn't worth having, and she acquiesced to him a few hours later, and did things his way. But when she started to do that flirting trick, teasing him with offers of backrubs... no, he recognised that old ploy from Jacinta, and he put a stop to it immediately. It was so clearly just a powergame, she was flirting for fun and as a battle of wits, the same as the pedals had been, the same as she played little power games with Josh, proving that she could play drums better than he could play guitar, the same way that she'd tried to play power games at pool - and that had gone horrible wrong.

He had seen another side of Charley that night, the night she was attacked, a more vulnerable side, and he felt like they had broken through into a deeper level of friendship, that he had proved he was beyond all those power games. That he could sleep the night by her side on her sofa, and not even touch her. Well, OK, he had touched her hand a few times, even held it once or twice, but she didn't know how much that had meant to him. He thought they were going to be alright - Charley and Moira's relationship was strong, he could keep Paul and Jacinta out of it.

Except he couldn't, not for long. It was Paul that finally cracked Moira, with that immigrant-son sob story of his. And Moira, fresh off the boat as she was, she ate it up, making eyes at him like Molly Bloom. He could see Charley from across the room, trying to pull her girlfriend away from him, but Moira was lost. Jacinta had accosted Brandon in the kitchen, her eyes glowing with triumph, telling him that the way was all clear for him. It made him feel that old nausea as everything went according to plan, and they all fell for it. Charley got the hump and left, and Moira resolved to stay. After 20 minutes or so, Josh and Alyssa would make their excuses and go home, and Moira would be thrown to the wolves. And Brandon, maybe he was tired of fighting, maybe he was slightly drunk and consumed with lust for Charley, but he went along with it, he said he'd take her home, he even got her a cab - and then at the last minute, he lost his nerve. He knew what Paul and Jacinta had planned for Moira - and he wanted to think himself better than their predatory games. So he refused to do the same thing to Charley, and got back in his cab and went home.

He couldn't do it. He'd been crushed at the wrong end of a love triangle with Jacinta and Paul before, that night of the infamous threesome. He could not willingly climb back into the same bed, and walk willingly into a love triangle with Charley and Moira. He hated using people, and he hated feeling like he was being used. He'd felt it, that evening, that Charley was so upset over Moira, that she'd asked him to come up 'for coffee' or whatever flimsy excuse she used to get him in the flat. He was no fool. He knew she was asking him to sleep with her, as revenge for Moira sleeping with Paul and Jacinta. It had taken every ounce of strength in his body and soul to say no, but he had said no, and he'd walked away the better man.

And then came the snowstorm, and Charley trapped at his house for three days, and he had given in to his animal instincts, and he had fucked her, and fucked her again, and pinned her down and would have fucked her a third time, had Moira not rung in the middle of it, and snapped him out of his fantasy.

He couldn't help himself. Three days of make-believe. He had it so bad, he was so besotted, he couldn't help but read secret messages into everything that Charley did. She lay in his bed, and he read it as a come-on. She completed his Floyd quotes, and played David Gilmour riffs at him, and he read it as a secret message that they were meant to be together. She braided his hair and he read it as a secret message that she would do anything to touch his skin - though that one was such obvious projection, he craved her touch so much that he would let her make him look ridiculous, just to have the feel of her fingers against him a little longer. She asked him about the complicated and impossible series of misunderstandings with his brother, and he read it as a secret message that she cared about him enough to want to be part of his family. She picked a weepy Bogie and Bacall film to watch, and it was a secret message that she was secretly pining for him, carrying a torch like the doomed lovers. She wanted to watch Chasing Amy - Chasing Amy, for fucks sake! - and it was a secret message that she sometimes slept with men, and she might actually even sleep with him. The Meaning of Life - he couldn't even read a secret message into that, he was just too drunk and put his arms around her and held her until she fell asleep, and she let him. She had put her arms around his waist and laid her head on his chest and she clung to him like a drowning rat. That didn't just mean she was lonely and cold, that meant she wanted him. Badly. Christ, what kind of fucked-up way of thinking was that? She let him hold her, she didn't push him off, and that meant she wanted him? Give it a fucking rest, Curtis, that's a fast track to date rape.

But then she'd climbed on top of him and raped him. Except it wasn't really rape, sure, he had said no, he'd heard his voice say it, even as he was reaching between her legs and trying to get his hands or his tongue or his cock or any part of his body inside her, he wanted her so badly. And there was no secret message there. She was half-crazed from hypothermia and scared out of her wits from almost dying, and they'd been naked together in bed, in the midst of a disaster that felt like the end of the world, and they'd just done what had come naturally. But he'd read a whole crazy story into that, that she was in love with him, and that she would leave Moira, and be his girlfriend, be his actual, proper, breakfast-in-bed, wearing-each-others-clothes, finishing-each-others-sentances, gazing-into-each-others-eyes-as-they-came girlfriend. It was a fantasy come true. A wonderful, beautiful fantasy, him and Charley, in love, in bed, in a band together, fantasy.

A fantasy that lasted less than 24 hours, because the next morning, Moira rang, and Charley had just whispered "I love you" over the phone, and then pretended she hadn't, even though he'd heard her do it. And when he confronted her, she'd packed up her things, and gone running back to Moira, like none of it had happened. Like all that amazing sex hadn't happened. Like all that staring into each others' eyes and talking about their deepest secrets hadn't happened. Like Brandon just hadn't happened, at all.

It was like Jacinta all over again. Brandon couldn't go back to that. Brandon wouldn't go back to that. He might have loved Charley more than life itself, but there were limits. He could not go through all that again.

In a funny way, he understood. Moira was stability, and domesticity and all those kitchen cabinets and that beautifully appointed flat, like lesbians just had a way with home decor and frilly curtains and built-in kitchen units. And what did he have to offer her? Two messy rooms above a noisy rehearsal studio, and not even a clean towel for in the morning? What the fuck did he have to offer any girl, especially a girl like Charley? He didn't blame her for leaving. Given the choice, he probably would have left him, too.

He wanted to cry. He wanted to scream and throw things at the wall, and he also kinda wanted to throw up, that old bad-mushrooms-and-sexual-jealousy nausea rising in the back of his throat. But he shook his head, and forced down his tears, and told himself that he had done the right thing, at least this time. He had saved the band. Even if nothing else, he had saved the band.

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Secret Machines play their first gig with the new line-up at a secret location in Brooklyn, as Charley and Brandon try to make sense out of their break-up. And Paul and Moira start playing a dangerous game as Moira insinuates her way, bother personally and professionally, into the world of Interpol.

As soon as I walked in the door of my own apartment, Moira pounced on me. "So tell me all about it, tell me every gory detail of lovey-lovey love-love land..." But then she saw my devastated face, and the tracks of my tears down my face. "Oh, shit. Sweetie, what happened?"

"Drunken mistake. He's insane. Or an asshole. Or both. I don't know. He didn't even give a reason. Just ended it before it began. Over. Finito. That's it. Curtains."

"Of course he's insane. All musicians are insane. What do you want to date a musician for anyway, they're all rubbish."

"I'm a musician!" I protested. "I'm not saying I'm not insane... I probably am. I just thought we were... I dunno, insane in the same way."

"Yeah, but Charley, despite being insane, you're actually reliable. You work a dayjob, you pay your rent, you take a shower more than once a week. Dating musicians... especially in New York? Think of it this way, Charley, you dodged a bullet."

"What do you mean, I dodged a bullet?" I sunk to my knees feeling my head spin. I didn't feel like I'd dodged a bullet, I felt like I'd somehow screwed up the greatest thing to ever happen to me in my life, and I didn't even know why.

"Trust me, being a rock star's girlfriend is not all it's cracked up to be. Been there, done that, got the T-shirt, lost it at the laundrette. They're unreliable, they're unfaithful, they end up leeching off you, moving into your house without even telling you because hey, what do you call a musician without a girlfriend? Homeless. And on the rare occasion that they're actually successful, they fuck off on tour, and you're left stuck at home paying the bills, while they go off with all the glory - and all the girls."

"But Brandon isn't like that," I heard my voice saying weakly. Oh Christ, no, this wasn't what I needed to be hearing, if it was making me want to defend him, to fight his corner.

"How do you even know what he's like, when he can fuck you one day, and then just dump you for no good reason the next?"

"I... I don't even know what it's supposed to mean." An hour ago, I thought I knew him, I had even thought I loved him. Now just thinking of him made me feel slightly sick to my stomach. "The whole thing just seems so completely _unlike_ him."

"It means you never really knew... oh shit." The phone started ringing. "Let me just grab that..."

"If it's him, I am not here, I jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge and ran away."

"It's for you." She walked over, holding out the cordless phone.

"No, Moira, I told you, I do not want to speak to him, he's a..."

"It's not him, it's a girl."

"Hello?"

"Hi. Charley. Is this a bad time? It's Alley." My brain had to whir to get from one state to another.

"Oh god, no. It's fine. I'm glad you called. It's just... boy trouble."

"Oh. The worst. Do you want to talk about it, or should I distract you with guitars and gig tickets?" she soothed, and at that moment, I couldn't think of anything I wanted to talk about less than guitars and gig tickets, though at any other time, I could have rambled on for hours. What had he done to me?

"No. Yes. I mean, I don't know. Fuck. Sorry! I..." And then I took a deep breath. She had known the Curtis Brothers for years, had toured with them, even before she got involved with Benjamin. "Alley, you know Brandon Curtis, right?"

"Brandon?" She actually sounded surprised. " _Brandon_ is the boy in your boy trouble?"

"No! I mean... sort of. I guess... yes. Which is kind of the problem - the yes which suddenly turned into a no is the trouble at the moment. But Alley... you know him. Is Brandon insane, or just an asshole?"

"Brandon? Insane. Definitely. Mad as a box of frogs." She answered that without hesitation. "But I've never actually known any of the Curtises to actually be an asshole. They're all very genuine, very sound people, the whole family. Even Brandon. Despite the whole..."

"Despite the whole not talking to his brother for two and a half years thing? Is that actually being an asshole, or is that stubbornness?"

"Well, I was thinking more of the _bros before hoes_ thing, but, still. Point taken."

"Alley, he never said that. It was a stitch-up by the NME. They garbled the quotes, mixed up what he actually said at the interview with something they got off some supposed 'inside sources' - Alley do you know any nutty ex girlfriends of Brandon that are into Santeria candles and crazy voodoo shit?"

"Oh, shit, the NME spoke to _her_?" The disgust in her voice made it plain she knew exactly who I was talking about. "Christ, if he'd just said..."

"This is where we get to the stubborn and insane bit. He thinks that Benjamin should have just known, as if by ESP or something, that he never said that stuff. He's mad at Benjamin, for not instantly understanding the crazy mixed-up explanation he concocted in his head, and never bothered telling anyone else about..." I let my voice trail off as I wondered if I wasn't talking about Benjamin and Brandon, but was talking about him and me. What the fuck was the story he'd told himself about him, and me, and Moira's kitchen cabinets? I couldn't even begin to guess.

"Oh yeah, that's Brandon alright, to a T. Do you know, he will have entire conversations in his head, with people, where he works out what he is going to say, and every permutation of what they might say, over and over - until he actually forgets that the conversation has never happened in real life, outside his head. And then he gets confused and pissed off when you act as if you've never had that conversation because, well, he has and you haven't. I've seen him do it." She laughed. "You know, it never occurred to me until today - Brandon has probably apologised to Benjamin and me about a hundred times already, in his head, and is probably actually slightly hurt that we have never accepted that apology."

"Insane," I observed.

"Insane, and almost passive-aggressively conflict avoidant, but not actually an asshole. Probably. Anyway, what I was actually ringing you about was, are we still on for Friday?"

"Yes!" Actually, that would be amazing, if I could have my gang of girls - Moira and Alyssa and Alley - as backup against whatever shit Brandon might pull.

"Is there a cover charge, or do we have to get tickets..."

"I don't know, but you'll be on the guest list, either way."

"You can't put us on the guest list. Brandon will freak. You do not want Brandon freaking before a show, trust me on this one."

I couldn't help but laugh. "OK, Kieran and Lucy Wildwood will be on the guestlist. They're my cousins so Brandon can't object, but they live in London, so they'll never turn up. Say you're them, you'll get in."

\-----

I didn't know how I got through the week. Well, I did know - I pulled a lot of overtime at Moira's office, signing on for extra hours while they upgraded all their servers, manning the helpdesk and taking panicked calls from freelancers who didn't understand why a planned server outage meant they couldn't get their emails. Despite the annoyance, I could certainly use the money to buy a more road worthy guitar cabinet for the upcoming tour.

We had one rehearsal on Wednesday evening, to make up for the time that Josh had missed due to the blizzard. But as I was coming from the Village, I got a ride over in Josh's van, working the radio for him as we went over the Williamsburg Bridge, quite one of my favourite views of the city. Talking to Josh about music was so easy - the guy had a completely encyclopaedic memory of every song ever played on AM radio, artist, release date and chart position - that I didn't even have to bring up the weirdness with Brandon the previous weekend. Maybe Brandon was right - the easiest thing to do was just pretend it had never happened.

We tried not to look at each other during rehearsal, but that was the funny thing. I didn't _have_ to look at him any more. It was like I knew, from having sex with him, exactly what he was going to do and when, like my body was just responding to him without my head even having to get involved. At break time, he and Josh sat at the kitchen table and drew up a set list, while I stood at the counter and watched them, trying not to even look at the bedroom, and certainly not think about what we'd done there. But then we went straight back downstairs, and we played the set twice through without breaking each time, and I learned to watch Josh to get the cue for which song we'd do next.

We could do this. It was fine. And even when the rehearsal was over, and Brandon tried to persuade me to stay a little later - he said to work out some of the transitions, but I knew he wanted to have one of those little are-we-still-OK check-in talks - I told him I was meeting Moira for dinner, and got a ride as far as the subway with Josh. It would all work out. I would just force it to work out, if I had to.

By Friday, my pre-gig nerves were so jittery I didn't have time to worry about Brandon. Josh had left his van at the Fire Station, and we had agreed that the three of us would meet there, load up and drive over to Daddy-Os together, but I purposely dawdled and even bought a cup of coffee at the overpriced cafe right by the L station so I could wait and watch for Josh to emerge from the subway. Christ, I hated Williamsburg. It was easy to forget what it was like, tucked away on Brandon's back street, never really leaving the Fire Station and the few as-yet ungentrified shops around there. But sitting in the window of the main strip, I felt very, very exposed to the appraising stares of kids wearing outfits that probably cost more than I made in a month. It was one thing to dress from thrift stores and the Salvation Army when you were stretching yourself paycheck to paycheck, but quite another to buy expensive "vintage" clothes from expensive boutiques that only looked like they had come from thrift shops, as if being skint was some kind of aesthetic.

And then I caught myself, and pulled myself up short. You wanted to move to New York, you made this choice. You wanted to live in a neighbourhood where it was OK to be over 30 and still playing in an indie-rock band. You wanted to hang out with writers and musicians and conceptual artists and... whatever that dude over by the counter, dressed as a Victorian explorer, with full handlebar moustache and a tweed deerstalker was supposed to be. You wanted this life. Don't sneer at it now you've got it.

But there was Josh, finally, emerging from the subway, his hair pulled back in a tight braid, sunglasses flipped down onto his nose, a large black canvas bag casually slung over one shoulder. I ran to catch up with him, and tapped him cheekily on the opposite shoulder, before he turned around and laughed to see me on the other side.

"Hey, where'd you come from?"

"Down on the corner, out in the street..." I sung.

"Creedence Clearwater Revival, released autumn 1969," Josh identified. "You psyched for tonight?"

"Look at my hand, it's shaking," I moaned.

"You'll be fine. You and Brandon and your crazy pre-gig nerves, and it's always fine," he laughed.

"Easy for you to say, you just hit things." We squabbled good-naturedly until we got to the Fire Station, where calming Brandon's nerves took both of our full attention.

Brandon was fussing that we were late, that load-in was scheduled for 4pm and it had already gone quarter past. Josh just shrugged and told him those things had an hour's leeway always built in. He often worked as a soundperson in the East Village, and he always shifted all the times an hour forward because he knew that bands would routinely be an hour or two late. But still, Brandon fussed, so we loaded and drove over, only to find that we were clearly half an hour before we were even expected, and the soundperson was nowhere in sight, only nonplussed customers flipping through the second hand record bins up front by the picture windows.

So Brandon sat at the bar, drawing up and re-drawing up a guest list, crossing out names and putting them back in, while Josh and I went over to the pool table and started a friendly game. Which only made Brandon fuss that pool tables made him nervous now - I mean, that was Brandon in a nutshell, wasn't it? It was me that had had the experience of being attacked by a pervert over a game of pool, but it was him that came away claiming to be traumatised. So Josh and I just ignored him and went back to our game. I beat him that time, fair and square, and though unfortunately I hadn't actually had money on it, he did buy me a beer.

After about an hour, the soundwoman turned up, looked surprised to see us, and set about trying to find the keys to the small venue room in the back, so we could unload. Brandon was practically vibrating with nervousness as we rolled the amps out of the van and onto the tiny stage, Josh was completely nonplussed and I... well, I was somewhere inbetween. None of this felt real, just quite yet. This place wasn't any bigger than most of the clubs and venues that Your Silent Face had played in Chicago and Detroit, and the routine of hurry-up-and-wait was reassuringly familiar. I still didn't have a pedalboard because I actually found it calming to set everything up, piece by piece.

Soundcheck, going through the kit drum by drum, the soundwoman slightly flummoxed by the unusual size and shape of Josh's kick drum. Going through my pedals one by one to give the soundwoman an idea of exactly how loud I was going to get when it all kicked off. Brandon fussing with his in-ear monitors and complaining that his vocal mic wasn't crisp enough. Despite the fact that this was the first time I'd ever done this, it felt comfortably like a routine I already knew.

It seemed to take forever. Hours of tinkering around. Brandon trying to get his vocal mic at exactly the right angle to switch between keyboards and bass. Josh producing a roll of electrical tape and physically taping his mic stands to his drums because he claimed he hit so hard everything moved about. I borrowed the electrical tape and double-taped my guitar strap to my Jazzmaster because it kept slipping off, like someone had been fucking about with it during the nights I wasn't in the studio, making the strap shorter than it was comfortable for me to play. Someone much shorter than me, with wavy light brown hair, based on the hairs that stuck to the electrical tape.

Finally, we got to run through a couple of songs, and everything pulled together. All those months of practising had paid off; we were a finely-tuned machine that recreated the roar of a thousand seraphim in the back room of a Brooklyn bar-cum-record-shop. People wandered through from the record shop, and took out phones to tweet or instragram about us before the soundwoman shooed them out again. Brandon showed every sign of starting to fuss again, like a colicky baby, but I told him it was all buzz, and it was good if it meant the show would be packed out.

Josh pulled out his iPhone and started flipping through Twitter, seeing if he could spot anyone talking about him, but then his phone bleeped, and he stared at it, worried. "Oh, shit."

"What? What is it?" Anything could set Brandon off fussing again, even a buzzing iPhone, it seemed,

"Someone just texted me to tell me, word has just gone out on the Brooklyn Vegan twitter account that we're playing here tonight. That means Pitchfork will pick it up in a matter of... yup."

"Oh, shit," escaped my lips that time. Everyone in the fucking world read Pitchfork. Even my little brother read Pitchfork. I didn't want to think about what this meant. Talk about the whole thing becoming _really_ real, a bit faster than I'd intended.

"Well, you wanted it packed," Brandon sneered, almost as if he was daring to laugh at me this time. "Better recheck the guest list, see if we can free up any spare spots at all."

"That reminds me." I'd almost forgotten. "Can you put my cousins on the list? Kieran and Lucy Wildwood."

"Are you sure they're gonna turn up?" Brandon grumbled. "We can't spare any unused spots."

"Positive, trust me on this one." I hated to lie, but I didn't want to risk how much more nervous he would be if he realised that it was his relatives that would be turning up to the show, not mine.

We ran through one more song, then that was it. We were as ready as we were ever going to be. There was no support band, so we didn't have to clear any of the equipment out of the way. Brandon told us one of his friends had claimed he was going to do a 'kick-ass DJ set' so we hung about. We didn't quite have backstage passes, but the soundwoman gave us all wristbands and showed us the tiny room behind the stage where we could stow our belongings. Brandon spread out his things like he was trying to stake his space, and showed every sign that he would just hide back there all night long, but Josh rolled his eyes and strolled out to the front to look through the record racks, and keep an eye out for any of his friends coming in the door. I was just about to start wondering where I should set up camp - in the back with Brandon, or in the front with Josh - when Alyssa came barging through the door, with an armful of Chinese takeaway bags.

"How is it? Have you finished soundchecking yet?" she asked breezily, commandeering a table for our food.

"You are just on time," I laughed. "How did you know?"

"I've been doing this for _years_ ," she announced. "Brandon always forgets to eat and gets super-cranky. Josh decides to eat without him and wanders off, sometimes for hours - sometimes it's just easier to bring the mountain to Mohammed." She opened the bags and started to go through the cartons. "Here's bean curd and broccoli for you, Charley. Sweet and Sour pork for Josh, General Tso's chicken for Brandon... where is he, anyway?"

"Hiding backstage, where else?" Josh snorted, grabbing his food with massive hands, some of his fingers still taped up from playing drums.

"Can you take this through to him?" Alyssa asked, and I picked it up and carried it through without even thinking.

"Special delivery, dinner for you," I announced, swooping in and depositing the bag by his feet, but he sat up and seized me by the wrist before I could waltz out again.

"Charley..." he said quietly. Oh shit. It was the first time we'd been alone, since we'd... and clearly, he wanted to _talk_. I was not in the mood to _talk_ , and talking to Brandon about that thing we did was the last thing I wanted to do. But just like when he didn't want to talk, there was no prying information out of him. when he did want to talk, there was no stopping him. "You've been avoiding me."

"No shit, Sherlock."

"Are you just never going to talk to me again?"

"That would make touring a little awkward but... well. I told you things were going to have to change. I would prefer to not be alone with you at the moment," I said dryly.

"So you're just not going to spend any time with me at all, is that it?"

"You're welcome to come out to the table, and sit with everyone and make conversation like you're one of the rest of us, yes. But am I going to leave my friends to come out and sulk in a corner with you? No, Brandon, I'm not."

As I turned to go, he picked up his things and announced "Fine!" Carrying his dinner, he followed me back out to the bar. From the surprised expressions on Josh and Alyssa's faces, I gathered this was unusual. "Hi," he said briskly and sat down. Alyssa and Josh exchanged bemused expressions then just passed him a set of chopsticks and some packets of soy sauce. 

And so we ate together, watching the outer room slowly fill up with friends, well-wishers, curious bloggers and fans. Yes, that was the sweetest - and yet oddest part of the evening, at least for me. People came over to us, starry-eyed hipsters forgetting their pose of cool for a moment. To my eyes, they were still kids - in their mid 20s - but I realised with a start that a lot of them must have been in High School when Now Here Is Nowhere came out. Girls - attractive young women now - came over and shyly approached Brandon, asking to have their picture taken with him, and he, forgetting his surly awkwardness for a moment, would agree, standing up and putting his arm affectionately around their shoulders and smiling for smartphone photos and instagrams. If there was a tiny part of me, deep down inside, that might have been slightly jealous of the attention he paid them, I remembered that a few years ago, that might have been me. Could very easily have been me, if Alison and I had managed to blag our way backstage at the Metro in Chicago. Would I have stood, silent and big-eyed, or would I have squealed like a teenage girl? No, more likely I'd have made sarcastic wisecracks until Brandon decided I hated him and scurried off for the dressing room. Not really that different from now, then.

However, once an actual journalist - or at least someone who claimed to be one - came and sat down, uninvited, next to us, and started asking inappropriate questions about the tangled web of relationships between the various bands in our circle, Josh wisely made the executive decision that we should retreat back into the inner room, with an impromptu bouncer on the door. Alyssa gleefully took the role, flipping through the names to look for people she recognised.

"Oh, there's no way he's getting in for free - he totally slated you in Spin a couple of years ago. OK, she can come - she'll want a plus one for her boyfriend, though. Does Moira really need three plus ones?"

"She said she'd bring a couple of friends from the Village Voice."

"She better... And who are Kieran and Lucy Wildwood? Who do they write for?" Her pen hovered over the names.

"They're..." I gulped nervously and tried to catch her eye to wink at her. "Family."

Abruptly, there was an altercation at the door, as a tiny ball of strawberry blonde energy fought her way through the now-crowded front room. "Sweetie-darling!" cried Moira. "If you're going to suddenly announce, via Brooklyn Vegan, that you are playing a secret show, do you think you could warn me first? I've got five staffers that want on the guest list now."

Brandon made a slight whimpering noise, stared at Moira with what could only be described as open hostility, then hastily beat a retreat towards the cubby-hole of a dressing room behind the stage.

I leaned over towards Alyssa to warn her. "You will totally recognise my 'cousins' when they come, but just let them in - and don't tell Brandon, OK? They are family, just not my family."

The adrenaline started rising in the back of my throat as I looked out into the bar and saw the crowd of people growing ever thicker. The front door opened - shit, there was Paul - but he wasn't able to get inside, as a crowd of actual high school aged girls surrounded him like a Cossack army. The real bouncer detached himself from behind the bar, and went over to push them back out into the shopfront again, and I had a sudden burst of nostalgia, remembering the days when I was too young to get into bar shows and hung around outside, trying to hear the dull roar of the music. I was almost tempted to go round the back and tell them to come in the fire exit, but didn't think Brandon would thank me for it - having his inner sanctum invaded by young girls who couldn't leave the dressing room without being chucked out. Actually, come to think of it, I didn't like that idea much either, especially with the way that Paul was leering at them.

Finally, Paul detached himself from his fanbase, and started to make his way across the room, though it took him a while to get to us, as he seemed to have to greet or be greeted by everyone in the bar. At least half of them looked vaguely familiar - probably indie-rock superstars I should be expected to know if I paid more attention to modern music. But finally he got to the door of the inner room and deposited unctuous kisses on the cheeks of Alyssa and Moira and myself.

"Where's Jacinta?" I asked pointedly, wondering yet how much more moody Brandon would get when she turned up.

"She sends her apologies - she's on a shoot in Rio de Janeiro." He made a face as if she thought a working holiday in paradise was the worst imposition she could be subjected to. "I'm flying solo tonight." This with, what I swear, was a pointed glance at Moira.

"Nice work if you can get it," Alyssa grumbled, looking through the guest list. "But it does free up her spot for one of Moira's colleagues."

"Are you working tonight?" Paul sighed, looking over at her.

"I'm always working, darling," Moira flipped back with a raised eyebrow, and I wondered if she was aware it made her sound like a prostitute - or maybe that was the point. "In fact I've got some interesting news for you, on a work related tip."

"Oh yeah?" He heaved himself up onto a barstool beside her.

"I spoke to my contact at Rolling Stone. They are totally interested in an access all areas road diary of the Interpol tour, written by yours truly. And if I can swing it right, we might be looking at the cover story, provided I can make it, um, interesting and salacious enough to be worth their while."

"Well, salacious, I'm sure you could excel at, my dear," Paul flirted right back at her. "But what kind of interesting?"

"You know there's been all kinds of rumour floating around, that this might actually be Interpol's last tour, due to personnel issues? If I could get you to confirm or deny..." she probed, and suddenly I saw the method behind her girlish simpering. She was good, much better than I'd given her any credit for.

"Now you know I can't confirm or deny anything, my darlin'." He batted his baby blue eyes at her innocently.

"Well, I happen to have heard an interesting rumour, just this morning, that someone in this very venue has been mooted as a potential replacement for a certain unhappy bandmate, should anything untoward happen while on tour..." Moira probed.

Paul looked right back at her. He didn't even blink, the bland flirtiness of their poker faces perfectly mirroring each other. "Cover story, you say."

"Potentially."

He blinked first. "Shouldn't you be going through our publicist, not me?"

"Well, I thought I'd try to see if I could sort out a more sofa-surfing budget-friendly option first. It'd be so much cheaper if I could share hotel rooms with Charley, hitch rides on the tour bus..."

"And also easier to eavesdrop on any dressing room gossip," Paul added.

"That is rather the idea of an access all areas tour diary," Moira winked back.

I narrowed my eyes at her from across the room. On one hand, it would actually be fantastic to have another woman on the tour, so it wasn't just me and 7 dudes in a total indie-rock sausage party. But maybe I would have preferred it if Moira had run it past me before simply assuming that she could invite herself into my hotel room? It wasn't as if we didn't get on wonderfully, as housemates and friends - but perhaps I would have appreciated my own space? And the idea of watching Moira and Paul flirting back and forth over tit-bits of information about the future of his band, while I was trying very hard not to nurse a broken heart over Brandon and his weirdness, well, that did not appeal either.

Luckily for me, we were interrupted by another person that Alyssa checked off the guest list and instantly let in, an older man with a battered fedora and a pugilist's crooked nose. From his vintage suit, and the casual way he fist-bumped and hugged Paul - and from how Moira simpered and sat up straighter - I assumed it was another Interpol. "Where's the man of the hour, where's our boy, Brandon?" the newcomer demanded, peering around. "That bastard Dan didn't get him first, did he?"

"Hiding backstage, suffering from first night nerves," I sighed.

"Aw, bless," chuckled Paul, grinning with genuine affection.

"Go on, ferret him out, tell him Uncle Sam's here," joked the newcomer, pushing his hat to the back of his head.

"It's not like he listens to me," I shrugged.

"Are you kidding?" Paul snickered. "Charley, you need to have more faith in yourself. Listen. If she said jump, Brandon would say how high?"

"No, Paul," teased Sam. "That's you, that's powerless in the face of a pretty girl. The rest of us have more self control."

"Leave me out of it," I said quietly, not really in the mood for dealing with two lecherous Interpols. Shaking my head ruefully, I made my way backstage to check on my guitar again.

Brandon was sitting backstage, his knees up on the tiny bench, his nose in a well-thumbed paperback. He had changed, put on a crisp charcoal grey button-down shirt and a warm brown knitted vest that really brought out the chocolate tones of his eyes. And although I had been determined to just ignore him, I couldn't resist interrupting his train of thought. "What are you reading?"

"The Meditations of Marcus Aurelius."

"Heavy going, all that stoicism."

"I find it calms my mind at a time like this." He didn't even look up, and it somehow irritated me that he was able to ignore me, like I couldn't ignore him.

"Paul's here," I told him, wondering if that would get his attention. "And some guy called Sam?"

"Good." Oh, so it wasn't just me he was ignoring.

"So it looks like Moira has invited herself along on our tour," I added, and that, finally, got the shield of the book lowered, as he stared at me with wounded eyes.

"You must be glad of that," he finally said, with a calmness that sounded completely forced. So why did he hate Moira now? It couldn't just be her kitchen cabinets.

"It'll be interesting, that's for sure," I conceded.

He raised the book again, but there was the crackle of static, and then a blast of music rolled in from the club outside. Sighing deeply, he lowered it again and climbed to his feet. "I suppose I better go put in an appearance for Paul and Sam, hadn't I, since I'm not going to be allowed to finish my book?" he muttered, and walked out. I looked down, then curiosity got the better of me, and I picked up the book. The page he had been reading was mostly a long passage about the importance of Duty over the calls of the Passions. Several key phrases about accepting and mastering one's emotions had been underlined. Well, all that mastering of his emotions certainly hadn't done him any good. I put the book down again and walked back out to find that he had gone up to the DJ booth to talk to Paul, Sam, and another man I didn't recognise. They all seemed to know each other well, laughing and joking, though to be honest, it seemed like all three of them were vying for Brandon's attention like a favoured teacher as he hung back coolly. Well, I knew that feeling.

I gave up and went over to sit next to Alyssa again, but Brandon was whispering to the DJ, getting him to change the record. A familiar electro-pop riff echoed out across the room as Brandon searched the room with his eyes, then latched his gaze upon me. As soon as the words started, he seemed to be mouthing along with them, all of his emotions blazing across his face. What a weird song to choose!

"Call your girlfriend, it's time you had The Talk. Give her your reasons, say it's not her fault. But you... just met somebody new..." He was definitely singing along with the record, though why he was staring at me like that, I could not tell. Was he trying to tell me that he'd met someone else? Who? How? Brandon didn't ever leave the Fire Station without being poked and prodded to by Josh or Paul or me.

The verse started, and Paul looked up, and started to sing along in his deep, crooning baritone. "Tell her not to get obsessed, second-guessing everything you've said and done. And then when she gets upset, tell her how you never meant to hurt no one."

"Then you tell her that the only way her heart will mend is when she learns to love again. And it won't make sense right now, but you're still her friend. And then you let her down easy..." Moira had looked perplexed when the song first came on, but now she was looking at Paul as she sang, and I could only guess what was going through her head. Was this a message to Paul and Moira, and not to me at all? Or was Brandon the girlfriend in the song, and in his head, was it Paul singing this to Jacinta, about him?

As everyone in the room broke into singing along in the chorus again, I felt like the entire world had tangled into some giant joke that no one had bothered to explain to me. "Call your girlfriend, it's time you had that talk. Give her your reasons, say it's not her fault."

I got up, shaking my head, and walked back into the little cubbyhole backstage. So, Marcus Aurelius, looks like it's just you and me.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Secret Machines play their secret gig - and Brandon has a surprise visitor at the end.

Marcus Aurelius' Meditations didn't soothe me like they soothed Brandon, they just made me feel more and more nervous. Why, just when I needed Brandon to be normal, had he chosen tonight to turn all weird again? It was only just hitting me, what I had signed up for. No, it wasn't the little hipster club in the trendy part of Brooklyn giving me all these terrifying nerves. It was the idea that this was the warm-up for a proper, full-on, major label tour, of the sort that Rolling fucking Stone was prepared to send a journalist along to report on it. This was what I'd wanted all my fucking life. But now I actually had it? I was terrified, and hiding backstage. Standing just at the stairs onto the little stage, I could see the club quickly filling up. 

Paul had claimed the table just off to the side of the stage, from where he could see and be seen by everyone, and people were coming over to pay their respects, like to a Roman emperor. Some of the fangirls - the ones who could prove or borrow ID to show they were over 21 at least - had got in, and lined up in a little cluster in front of Brandon's keyboard. And just at stage front and centre, there were a couple of older dudes with huge, professional looking camera set-ups hung around their necks. Noooo... I hadn't thought about that. Well, that meant I better put my stage clothes on and sort out my hair and makeup. That, for me, was something that calmed me and made me ready, maybe the way that Marcus Aurelius calmed Brandon.

I brushed my hair, and straightened it with a small, plug-in hair iron, then set about applying mascara and smoky rock chick eyeliner. And just as I put on the last touch of liquid liner along the bottom of my eye, I noticed that I was not alone in the mirror. Brandon was standing beside me, watching me with an expression of longing on his face. "What?"

He moved towards me, resting his hands on my shoulders as he bent down over me, his cheek almost next to mine. "You look so beautiful."

Resisting the urge to snort 'fuck off' I merely shrugged "Thanks."

What he said next surprised me. "Can you do my hair?"

"What, do you want braids again?" I teased, unable to resist.

"No, I meant, the straightener. My brother used to have one we used before gigs, but... well, I never bothered getting one of my own." 

I turned towards him, surprised by the sudden admission. Despite his clotheshorse ways, he had never struck me as vain. I just stood up and gestured for him to take my place on the chair. I brushed out his long, tangled, hair, and he didn't even grumble as I pulled at the knots, so I resisted the urge to catch the tip of his ear with the straightening iron as some bizarre form of petty revenge for my mangled heart. Instead I just brushed his hair forward, and made him look pretty, arranging it around his face to frame his cheekbones.

"There you go. As they say in Finland, if your hair's good, your life's good," I pronounced, quoting a mad Finnish exchange student I'd known in high school.

"I need all the help I can get," Brandon sighed. For a moment, his eyes flickered towards mine, but he changed the subject. "At least it's starting to fill up out there."

"Does it make you feel more nervous or less, the more people there are out there?" I continued to fuss with his hair, though maybe I was really trying to avoid coming up with reasons to stop touching him.

"Oh, less nervous, definitely. I think that's half the reason for my horrible pre-gig nerves - the fear that no one will turn up. It's not stage fright - I'm fine the moment I get onstage, adrenaline just takes over, and it's a rush. It's the waiting beforehand that does my head in."

"It'll be fine," I told him, though perhaps I was trying to calm myself. And then I thought of the massive venues we'd be playing with Interpol, and I started to feel kinda vomitty again. "What it's like, playing those really huge two or three thousand people venues?"

"What, like we'll be doing in a couple of weeks?" Brandon said, his eyes flashing.

"Oh god." I felt a small quake in the pit of my stomach, but then as Brandon smiled up at me, I realised he was teasing me. And somehow, it reassured me, the friendliness of that dry, laconic teasing of Brandon's.

Laughing, Brandon reached up and patted my hand gently, still resting on his shoulder. "You'll be fine. In a lot of ways, it's actually easier. When there's that many people, they kind of blur into an indistinguishable mass. You can't see anything beyond the first couple of rows as people, so they don't bother you. Though in other ways, it's harder, because you have to really work to establish any kind of personal connection with the audience. But on the other hand, it encourages you to really work to make a connection with your bandmates instead."

I nodded slowly. "I often found that, in Your Silent Face, the nights I enjoyed best weren't necessarily the ones where we had interactions with the audience - they were the nights that we really enjoyed being with each other onstage. And people who saw us several times, they said the same thing - we sounded better when we were focusing on each other, not worrying about how we looked to the audience."

"Exactly." Brandon agreed sagely.

And I looked down at him, his hair shining with reddish highlights under the harsh bulbs of the dressing room, and I thought, we have got to stop being silly, and sort this out for the sake of the band. I might love him, but he was right - that chemistry came first. Dropping my hands from his shoulders, I moved away backwards.

There was a burst of noise, and Josh suddenly appeared in the room, filling it with his presence. "Hair and makeup, hair and makeup," he teased. "Fix my face, make me look prrrrretty!"

"Come here and I'll straighten that cloud of yours, it'd probably come down to your waist if I ever got all the curls out." I menaced him with the tongs, but he darted away.

"No, way, man! My hair is my life!" he protested, then got distracted by the makeup on the bench. "Ooh, eyeliner. Can I use some of this?" And there he was, touching up the dark circles around his eyes to make himself look more fierce. "Nearly time to go on. Everybody OK?" Brandon and I both nodded, though neither of us said anything. "I've spoken to the bar - they're gonna put a bottle of tequila and some shot glasses up on the stage by my kit. It's kind of a little tradition of ours. Get ya in the mood."

"Oh god," I murmured, more afraid of Josh's drinking capacity than I was of performing a gig but as Josh bounded out across the stage, someone put their hands reassuringly on my shoulders and gave me a little squeeze.

"You'll be fine," he told me, then moved forward and kissed me softly on the cheek. Oh fuck. That just wasn't fair. All my insides turned to liquid gold as he moved away from me and headed out onto the stage to check his own gear. For a few moments, I just stood there, feeling blasted, my body aching for him as head whirled. Fuck you, Brandon Curtis, for doing this to me, just when I was starting to feel normal again. How can you do this to me with just one kiss? How can you make me want you again, when I know that you are just a crazy, insane asshole?

And yet I forced myself to climb the stairs, and get up onto that stage, feeling the roar of the crowd bear me up as I walked out into the lights. "Drink!" insisted Josh, and a shot glass of tequila appeared in front of me. Brandon touched his glass to mine, and we all downed them. I felt the alcohol sear my throat, and start a fire in my belly. We could do this, I knew it. How many times had we rehearsed it in the Fire Station? This was what I was born to do.

Was I supposed to start this one? No, Brandon and Josh started it, setting up a slow, sinuous groove. We were starting with First Wave Intact, a bold statement of intent - and also one that everyone was guaranteed to know and recognise. Flicking on my distortion pedal, I let loose my grip of the strings and felt the feedback rising from the amp behind me. Brandon was staring at me, his eyes half closed, mouth half open, his tongue playing nervously with his bottom lip as he waited for me to catch my cue and come in. I looked down, flipped on the Moogerfooger and the phase, feeling his distorted bass grinding underneath me, and then I joined in, slashing across him in the familiar stop-start rhythm.

The crowd went wild, but I teased them like I was used to teasing Brandon, shoving that riff in their face, then pulling back, rolling my hips back and forth as if I were marching. And then the two of us cut out, at exactly the same moment, feeling Josh's beat move us as we bent down to our microphones.

"The open way's too dangerous... Listen close, they're watching us... One more time you're losing us... Hold still they're shooting us..." And then all three of us slammed into action, the noise rising around us. "First wave down..." My fingers flew up and down my frets as I let the music just take me. The audience might as well not even have been there, it was just the three of us, and the maelstrom of sound rising every higher. I slashed at my strings, attacking my guitar as if I hated it, using it as a weapon with which to cut through the sinew and bone of the rhythm that Brandon was trying to bind me to. I felt locked into him, pushing, pulling, taking out all my anger on the guitar as we goaded one another on to greater and greater heights. I flicked on the next distortion pedal, kicking up another gear into total warfare as the song thrashed to its conclusion.

No time. Across the stage, Josh was taking the top off his water bottle and Brandon was bending down to the mic saying something about how good it was to be back, but I had to bend down, flick switches on my pedals, and line up the settings for the next song. Was I going to get up in time? Shit. They had started without me. But I could feel the throb of Brandon's bass supporting me, slowly pulling me around to face him. He was staring at me, concern on his face, as if he seemed to be willing the song into my head. Wait, I knew where we were. My fingers shaped the next chord, and he smiled at me, a smile of such utter and pure pleasure I wanted it to go on forever. I didn't want to look at him, but he kept smiling, and moving his fingers, finding the next note, and the next, seducing me into playing along with him, and suddenly we were back at the beginning of the verse again, and I knew where we were. From here it was smooth sailing as he bent his head down to the microphone, and I leaned one leg forward, and triggered my wah pedal, squishing and stretching the notes, kneading them like he had once kneaded my body. I cast a glance over at him and saw him looking back at me with a look of such mischief I thought it was impossible that he couldn't be thinking the same thing.

He was sitting at his Rhodes now, legs splayed so he could reach his pedals, looking straight at me as he teased me with his hips and his stabbing chords. How could anyone look at him onstage, look at how he moved, and not want to fuck him? I was dangling in the breeze of his fingertips, just rubbing my guitar notes underneath, trying to pull him in with my own sounds. I wanted to seduce him, there onstage, swinging my hips, coaxing more and more obscene noises from my guitar, that sounded almost human in their longing. And then I heard rolling thunder from the other side of the stage - yes! yes! yes! I loved this bit of the song, as Josh came in from behind like a krautrock cavalry and just picked us up and carried us away as the song ratcheted up another gear and blasted off into outer space. I was actually jumping up and down with excitement, amazed that I could play and bounce at the same time, but every note we hit was golden.

Another song? Already? I turned towards Josh, twitching with excitement as he counted us in, watching for how he would hold his arms up above his head, then CRASH! Down he came on the cymbals as Brandon and I smashed our strings in unison. Again? Yes! CRASH! And we were off again on another blast-off into space. I was having so much fun I wanted to be down the front, in the audience, dancing, it seemed almost unfair to be up onstage and tied behind my pedals, but I did the best I could, grinning as I looked over at Brandon, who grinned back at me and seemed to try to push me to go ever faster and faster, driving my hips with the movement of his left hand against the bass end of the keyboard.

The next one? Oh god YES! YES! YES! This one is definitely my favourite! Leaping into the air, I did a flying kick in the direction of the drumkit, then managed to right myself, just in time to match Brandon's entry - I didn't even have to see him to know he was there, feeling his eyes on the back of my head like an extra sense. Our notes slammed together again and again, twining like vines around a throbbing drone note. I teased him by bending my strings, almost going off the mark, but never quite, just enough to heighten the tension, but never enough to destroy that delicate balance. On and on, it went, and I wanted it to go on forever, like plumes of smoke lifting to the sky, but Josh pulled us back down to earth and sent us tumbling into the chorus, as I made it to the mic just in time to add the harmony.

And then we pulled back, staring at one another, sweating and starry-eyed, and Brandon smiled wistfully as he started to sound out the chords of the next song. No! This was the second to last song in the set! It couldn't be over that quickly. We'd only just started. So I tried to catch my breath and hold back, slowing down, remembering the first time we'd played this song, sitting splayed on the floor of the Fire Station, just delighting in the sound our instruments made together.

But the brief respite of prettiness was over far too quickly, and Josh was bashing away at his kit again, that pummelling Krautrock beat that meant it was our last song. I turned on all my pedals, barely controlling the feedback as Brandon started bringing in the melody on the piano, then turned towards him, my mouth taut, like I was daring him to dare me to let it go. He grinned at me, our eyes locked together, and then let loose the flood of sound I was holding back with my fingertips. The lights went on, a single stab of blinding white light, and then another, strobing, revealing the entire club up on their feet, coming along on our crazy ride. On and on we went, tumbling over one another - this song had no fixed end, we just kept playing, faster until one of us gave up, building towards some insane climax. I could riff forever, dropping from quarter notes to half notes on the rhythm guitar, and then just sliding up to a wailing solo, but Brandon and Josh played on like maniacs, the hi-hat just a blur of bronze metal, Brandon's face so close to his organ that his hair was brushing the keys. And yet, somehow we all stopped together, Josh throwing his head back, Brandon sitting up and catching his eye, and then 4-3-2-1 and it was over with a mighty BOOM!

A plume of feedback started to wail off into the night, but I strode backward and flipped the amp to standby. There would be no teasing, no grand finale, just that was it, over. Not even an encore. Leave them wanting more, Josh had said, though Brandon had been more pragmatic and said we had to get used to playing shorter sets if we were going to be the support act on the tour. We had planned to file off and disappear, but of course we didn't. The backstage was too small, and the club was too full of our friends. Josh stood up, holding what was left of his waterbottle over his head as he rinsed the sweat off his hair, then held the tequila bottle to his mouth for a moment, before passing it to me. I took a short sip, nearly gagged, and passed it to Brandon, who swigged a mouthful before passing it back to Josh. Staggering slightly, Brandon walked up to the edge of the stage, held up his hands, then pretended to collapse into the arms of a very surprised Paul, still sitting by the side of the stage. For a few moments, they wrestled, laughing, then started thumping one another on the back as Paul shouted his congratulations in Brandon's ear. My major concern was my pedals - I wanted to pack them away before I left the stage unattended, with all these people around. I could already see a suspicious looking character in a hoodie pressing his way to the front of the stage to peer at them.

Grabbing my gig bag, I lunged up to the front of the stage and started to tear my stuf down, eyeing the guy in the hoodie suspiciously. But a familiar face looked back at me from under the peaked hood.

"What is that synth tone you're using? I can hear you've got a Moogerfooger, but are you using something else, as well?" he asked, looking up at me with long-lashed chocolate brown eyes, the shade of which I knew, intimately. The nose was different, longer, more pointed, and the long face with a triangular jaw, instead of round, but the mouth was so familiar, those cupid's bow lips.

"I've got a Prunes and Custard. It's a ring modulator, it makes kind of a synthy tone," I explained, unplugging the pedal and holding it out towards Benjamin.

He turned it over a few times, and peered at the knobs, then handed it back. "Cool. My brother used to use one of these on his bass, but I've not heard one used on a guitar." Casting a practised eye over the rest of my pedals, he nodded approvingly. "You did really well, I'm impressed. But you should use a low-pass filter instead of a wah, really."

"What's the difference?" I picked up my Vox wah pedal, a veteran of many soldering job patches, and played with it idly, trying to get the foot-switch to catch.

"See, a wah pedal goes through the frequency spectrum like this." He moved his hands back and forth in parallel. "But a low-pass filter, it opens it up and down like this." He moved his hands like a fan opening and closing. "You get a thicker sound, less volume drop-out when you hit the by-pass."

A shadow fell over me, and I realised with a start that I was not alone. I looked up to see Brandon standing beside me, staring down at his brother as if he'd seen a ghost. Benjamin straightened up, and pulled back defensively, his head retreating back into the folds of his hood like a frightened tortoise. They looked nothing alike, really, their faces were different shapes, their hair different colours, and yet they still somehow looked so similar, as if they were two peas from the same pod, and I would have known them as brothers, even in a crowd.

"Ben," said Brandon, sounding more shocked than anything else.

"Hi," said Benjamin curtly, looking around as if for an escape.

"What are you doing here?" It wasn't a demand, just a statement of surprise.

Benjamin's eyes flickered towards me, and I wondered for a moment if he was going to out me as the instigator of this, but instead he shrugged defiantly. "Oh, you know, putting bros before hoes."

Hostility snapped down across Brandon's face like a mask. "You know I never said that."

Benjamin looked down at his feet, kicking them against the floor like a little boy. He suddenly looked a lot younger than the six years between them. "I know," he finally conceded. 

"I'm sorry," Brandon sputtered, throwing up his hands in a gesture of abnegation that seemed to deny his words.

The two brothers finally met each others' eyes and something unspoken seemed to pass between them, because Benjamin straightened his back and made as if to leave. "Well, the band's sounding good. I like what you've done with the songs. I should..." He gestured to the door, towards Alley, standing talking excitedly with Alyssa and Josh.

"Benjie," called Brandon, his voice ragged. He dropped down off the stage onto the floor beside his little brother - who actually towered over him by a good inch or two. The pet name had stopped him in his tracks, a nostalgic look on the younger man's boyish face. "Can I buy you a drink?"

"Alright. But just the one."

"I really am sorry," Brandon persisted. "I never said those things. I thought you knew."

"I did know." Benjamin straightened up, pushing his hood back then flicking his fringe out of his face. "I just needed to hear it from you."

"You little..." But before he could explode, a grin cracked over Brandon's face, almost instantly mirrored by an identical grin from Benjamin, who threw his arms around his big brother, and crushed him in a tight embrace.

"Would you just look at them." I turned to see that Alley was standing by my side, smiling at the brothers as they thumped one another on the back and tried to muss one another's hair.

"Now about that drink," Benjamin insisted, pulling away slightly and smirking at his now beaming brother. "Make it a Patron?"

We were still drinking several hours later, after we'd got kicked out of Daddy-Os and somehow managed to move the gear the several blocks back to the Fire Station. We splayed out across the floor of the studio, drinking and smoking joints and passing acoustic guitars back and forth over one another's heads. The whole gang was there, with Alley and Benjamin absorbed into the troop of people spread out around the room. 

Paul and Moira seemed to have disappeared, but we'd picked up another Interpol, the short, baby-faced man with a grin like a mischievous hamster, who kept trying to convince me to buy a second hand telecaster off him. "Come on," he insisted repeatedly. "I don't really play solid-body guitars, but it's a beautiful instrument, and needs to be played. It would totally suit your style, and I'll sell it to you at a knock-down price, really reasonable..."

Alley and Alyssa and I set up camp in the corner, holding guard over the last of the bottle of tequila, which Alley held between her crossed legs like a priestess guarding a votive offering. Brandon and Benjamin were squabbling over the opening chords to Sun King by the Beatles, passing the guitar back and forth between the two of them, though neither of them was quite sober enough to play it properly. It was so adorable the way they roughhoused together, like a pair of puppies - well, Benjamin was flopping about enthusiastically like an overgrown puppy while Brandon tolerated him with the air of a bemused elder dog, occasionally getting spurred up enough to jostle him back affectionately.

"You're both wrong," Alley finally insisted, taking the guitar from them and cradling it in her lap. "It's in D minor," she said and started to play, though Alyssa took the opportunity to relieve her of the bottle of tequila, taking a large swig from it before passing it over to Josh. Alley played it through softly but perfectly, Brandon and I joining our voices together on the refrain, _Here comes the Sun King, everybody's laughing, everybody's happy..._ though we both gave up and collapsed into giggles at the fake-Italian on the verse. "Where's my booze, you guys?"

Babyface Interpol took the guitar and started to fingerpick the beginning to Here Comes The Sun and looked over at Brandon. "Come on, Brandon, sing again," he urged. "I know you know this one."

Alley leaned towards me and wrapped one arm around my neck, pointing subtly towards the gaggle of boys sitting round the guitar. "Have you noticed," she stage whispered in my ear. "How all of Interpol are totally, blatantly in love with Brandon?"

"Get out of here," I laughed, passing the tequila back to her.

"No, look at them," she persisted, as the older one - Sam - started to squabble with Babyface, eventually taking the guitar from him and trying to play a Pixies song. "They're totally fighting one another, for his attention." As I watched, Babyface continued to tap at Brandon's arm, even as he was directing Sam in the chords to the song. "It's so cute, they're _so_ in love with him, and the funniest part is, Brandon is completely oblivious. Anyone else would totally take advantage of the situation, but Brandon doesn't even _notice_." Now that Babyface had the guitar back again, Sam had wrapped a heavily be-ringed paw around Brandon's shoulders, and was trying to pour him a drink.

"Brandon," I sighed. "Being totally oblivious to someone being in love with him? Imagine that." Suddenly, my party mood had gone, and I just felt exhausted and deflated, completely overwhelmed by the emotional upheavals of the past week.

I leaned over on Alley and closed my eyes for a moment, only to find her shaking me and laughing. "You're exhausted, you're falling asleep on me. You should go to bed."

"I don't want to miss a minute of the party, though."

"There will be loads more parties." She hugged me softly, or perhaps she was just trying to keep me from falling over and sleeping on her shoes. "Go to bed."

I nodded agreeably, tottered to my feet, then picked my way out of the studio and up the stairs towards the warm bed I knew was waiting there. It even smelled like me - someone clearly hadn't bothered changing the sheets since the last time I slept there. I was so drunk and exhausted and filled with general fellow feeling for Brandon and all of mankind that I actually forgot for that moment that we weren't together, and crawled into his bed, curled up in a ball and fell asleep.

\-----

I woke with a splitting hangover, the kind of hangover you could only ever get from drinking tequila straight out of the bottle, turned over, wrapped my arm around Brandon's waist, nestled my head against his chest and tried to get back to sleep.

It took me about two and a half minutes to realise that something was incredibly wrong with this scenario, and raised my head from his chest. He was looking back down at me with a half-bemused, half-perplexed expression.

"Charley," he said quietly.

"Oh, shit."

"We can not let this happen again." He seemed to try to put into his voice the conviction that he lacked in his face.

"I know," I insisted, and untangled myself from him, rolling over so that my back was to him again. He moved towards me, put his arm around my waist and spooned me from behind, nuzzling his face into the back of my neck. "What is this, then? Are you drunk?"

"Yup. A bit. Still. But I just want to hold you for a little bit."

"Knock it off. Remember the band, remember being professionals, right?"

"I am remembering the band. I'm remembering how you _move_ onstage."

I closed my eyes again, feeling the warmth and heaviness of his body against mine, trying to balance the conflicting desires in my head - the urge to just relax into his arms and let whatever happened come - and the hurt and anger and confusion and the desperate desire to just get up and away from this man before he could fuck with my head any more. This was Brandon. He wasn't... safe. Whenever I thought I could trust him, and just relax into his love, he would just pull the carpet out from under me and change all the rules. Carefully, I picked up his hand from my ribcage, shifted it over, then dropped it back onto his own hip, climbing out of bed and away from him before the knowledge could fully penetrate my waking mind that he was in point of fact very hard behind me. We had only two weeks until we were going on tour. I was not going to let either of us fuck that up.

"Charley?" he called as I was halfway across the room. I froze, wondering what he wanted. If he called me back to bed, would I really have the willpower to refuse? But he'd rolled over and covered himself with the blanket, changing the subject. "Was it you, who invited my brother to the show last night?"

My face gave it away, even as I tried to hedge. "Uh, mmmmaybe?"

He nodded slowly as a faint smile spread across his face. "Thank you."

I shrugged vaguely and walked out of the room so as to avoid the warmth of his gaze, padding through into the bathroom. I washed my face, found my shoes, then made my way downstairs. Although I wanted to just slip out without saying goodbye, I peeked into the studio downstairs and was surprised to see Benjamin and Alley sleeping on the unrolled futon. 

Alley sat up when she saw me. "Oh, hello. Are you going?" I nodded grimly, though I didn't trust my voice. "Just give me a minute, I'll come with you."

"I don't wanna get up," grumbled Benjamin from beneath a pile of blankets, but she turned and patted him gently.

"You don't have to. You and your brother were going to build a theremin from a schematic this afternoon, remember?"

"What?" His head emerged, blinking into the sunlight, dishevelled ginger hair pointing in every direction. "What have I agreed to?"

"I'm sure you'll make a wonderful mess," I laughed, waiting as Alley looked about for her boots.

"This is going to be one of those days we're going to have to lock them in the house and let them get on with it," Alley agreed.

"Two years," I agreed as we pulled the heavy studio doors closed behind us and filed out into the street. "I imagine they'll have a lot to talk about. Like, why the hell didn't they do this two years earlier?"

"If you want two men who aren't speaking to each other to do something about it, you have to get their partners involved. It is the way of things." Alley nodded sagely, then laughed at her own presumption.

I laughed, too, then suddenly noticed the ambiguous word she'd used. "I'm not Brandon's _girlfriend_ partner. Just his musical partner."

"You so are, you two just haven't noticed it yet," she teased.

"It's not even like that," I protested. I wished it was like that, but there was nothing left to notice. Whatever it had been, it was done.

"Don't even try to pretend you slept on his sofa last night. I can smell him on your clothes," she teased, pretending to hold her nose.

I was about to protest, when I raised my arm to my nose and inhaled deeply. I did smell like him. It wasn't even a bad smell. I liked Brandon's scent, slightly musky, slightly earthy. I _really_ liked smelling it on my body.

Alley burst out laughing as she realised what I was doing. "Oh my god, I was just kidding! You've got it _bad_. You are so his girlfriend."

"I really don't want to talk about this right now," I moaned. "Can we talk about guitars and gigs and bicycles instead?"

"Do you cycle?" Her eyes lit up as we started off down the street.

"I've just started up again. I was inspired by you, to be honest. I love your Pashley Princess."

"Oh, I wish you weren't going on tour for the whole summer. I got a book of scenic bike routes, up in the Catskills, that you can reach by bus. It would inspire me to go and ride them if I had someone to go with." And I successfully diverted the topic to hiking and trail-riding and nature reserves for the entire subway ride back to Bushwick. My heart felt oddly buoyed by the conversation - in fact, maybe that had been my favourite part of the whole evening. It wasn't just having a band - though obviously that was amazing and wonderful and more than I'd ever hoped, in every single way - it was also having a group of interwoven people around me. It had taken me six fucking months in New York City, but I was finally starting to get my own _crew_. We agreed to try to have at least one bike ride out to Rockaway before I left on tour, then said our goodbyes at the coffee shop over a soy latte before I faced the long walk back to my apartment.

When I got back home, I found Moira sitting at the kitchen table nursing a hangover ramen noodle. I looked her over carefully when I realised she was still wearing the same dress from the previous night, but I said nothing. Alright, I raised one eyebrow at her questioningly, wondering if she'd volunteer any information, but she just put her hand to her head and cursed the tequila. Seriously, it was not like Moira to keep a whisper of gossip quiet, but then again maybe I was imagining things. It's entirely possible she could have stumbled home and passed out in her party frock, I'd done the same thing too many times myself to completely discount it.

"You missed a great party last night," I probed.

"Business before pleasure," she shrugged mysteriously. "Be a doll and put the coffeemaker on, will you? I'm actually dying for a fag, but a cup of coffee is going to have to do."


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Secret Machines join Interpol for the long-awaited tour, as the guys (and girl) squabble over bunkbeds and lounges on the tourbus, and engage in a bit of "high school hazing type rituals" at soundcheck. If Brandon is going to continue to be weird, will Charley engage in a bit of tour-based flirtation of her own?

Preparing for a tour caught me by surprise, just how much work it involved. Of course I'd been prepared for all the band stuff, getting wheels put on my new amplifier stack, acquiring a spare guitar (I somehow ended up with Babyface Interpol's tele on semi-permanent loan, even though I'd sworn to him I couldn't afford to buy it off him) and finally biting the bullet and having one of Benjamin's friends build a pedalboard for me. He said he would sort me out with some kind of velcro and foam arrangement whereby I could still move the pedals around and change the order if I really wanted, though it would mean that I had to be extra careful closing the case to make sure they didn't come lose and get knocked around. I agonised over what book to bring along, whether to bring my laptop and risk it getting stolen or damaged, and eventually decided to make a load of playlists and shift as much music as possible onto my iPhone. If I needed to send emails or check twitter, the reception on that was generally better than the wifi on my laptop anyway. With equipment, words and music worked out, I thought I was set.

But then I hadn't even considered the details of clothes until Moira started fussing, asking if she could bring two suitcases or only one.

"Two suitcases?" I gasped. "Are you fucking nuts? I don't think I even own two suitcases worth of clothes in the whole world." I had, in point of fact, dumped two garbage bags full of my old things at the Salvation Army when I left Chris and driven to New York with only one suitcase of clothes, and the rest of the car stuffed full of books and records. It had actually hurt me more to sell my car, the first car I'd ever actually bought new, in a second hand lot in New Jersey, but the money paid my first few months' rent in the city until I found a dayjoy. The dayjob I'd just taken an extended leave of absence on, to go on this tour.

"You can't just wear the same fucking outfit onstage, every night for three months," Moira insisted, horrorstruck.

"Well, I've got two suits now," I shrugged. "And anyway, that's what Febreze is for." I had bought an extra large bottle, in preparation for the tour.

"And what are you going to wear offstage? Not just on the bus and at soundchecks, but you know... interviews... photo ops..." she fussed.

"I strongly doubt anyone's going to want to interview or photograph me."

"If you don't stop being so self-effacing, I am going to personally appoint myself your Public Relations officer," Moira threatened.

"If you even think about it, I'll throw you off the tour." I tried to look fierce but Moira just laughed.

"You couldn't, even if you wanted to, at this point. Come on, Charley, don't be rubbish. Let's go through your wardrobe." And so I found myself pushed, prodded and bullied into buying another pair of jeans, some serviceable leggings and a two-week supply of clean socks. I didn't think I'd ever owned that many socks at one time in my entire life.

And so it was a comical pair that Moira and I made as we found our way to the Fire Station, where the tourbus was parked to load up. I carried a single rucksack filled with everything I owned, while Moira staggered behind me, dragging a massive wheelie suitcase that was almost bigger than she was.

The bus was enormous, it took up almost the entire block, a rock star purple double-decker with a small truck parked behind it to carry the equipment and Interpol's stage lighting. I didn't want to know what kind of mileage it did to the gallon, but then again, we weren't paying for the petrol or even the bus; Interpol's record company were. Man, so this was why indie bands signed to major labels! Luxury accommodation! 

I had talked about money with my bandmates, working out the splits back before there even was any money. I would receive an even third of payment for the gigs, but not of the merchandising. I would, however, get per diems for food and the occasional motel room paid for out of the band's communal fund. But, for the most part, we were very much dependent on the hospitality of our hosts.

They were, however, quite kind to us, even as Babyface Interpol - I still hadn't caught his name - showed Moira and I around the bus and explained the house rules. He was quite funny and charming, even though he unnerved me slightly with the way he kept turning around and looking at me carefully. "What?" I finally giggled, wondering if I had salad stuck between my teeth.

He blushed slightly then shrugged delicately. "No, it's just... Yeah. Josh and Paul were right about you."

"Right about _what_?" I glared at Paul as he entered the bus, looking like a hobo in Adidas sweatpants and a hoodie, a backpack slung casually over one shoulder.

"Uh, right about you being an excellent guitarist," Babyface added rapidly.

"Nice save," chuckled Paul, winking at us before he disappeared upstairs.

"Anyway!" Babyface Interpol smoothed down his flustered feathers - or rather, checked his hair and adjusted his tie - and continued with the tour. "I'm trying to think of the other house rules we should tell you about the Interpol bus."

"If you're going to tell me about no number twos in the toilet, well, we know that one, and if you're going to warn us about no girls on the tourbus, well... oops!" I exchanged a sly glance with Moira and the two of us started to giggle.

"We have absolutely nothing against girls on our tourbus," Babyface said, raising one eyebrow roguishly as he leaned against the door, trying very hard to pretend that he was suave and debonair, even though I towered over him by several inches, even in my flats. Was he actually trying it on, or was he just one of those guys that flirted with everyone as a matter of course? And I thought it would be bad on tour with just one Paul around. Was the entire band going to behave like that? Or maybe this wasn't even for my benefit, maybe he thought that flirting with Moira was the way to a good Rolling Stone review. "In fact, we very much like having girls on our tourbus. As many girls as we can fit."

Fucking rock stars. I exchanged another glance with Moira, suppressing the urge to just burst out laughing at him.

"Knock it off, Dan," growled Brandon, humping his rucksack past us up the stairs.

"Anyway, this is the downstairs lounge, kitchen area, loo..." He actually said it like that, too, the little anglophile. "You'll get to know our schedule in the morning, Carlos likes to post a timetable for the bathroom." He made a face to indicate how ridiculous he thought this was, though I thought it was actually quite sensible with seven blokes - and I didn't even know how many crew - sharing one toilet. "Three hours for Carlos, ten minutes for everyone else. Oh, and whatever you do, do not use any of the Italian coffee singles, or someone will get his knickers in a twist..."

"Fuck off, Daniel," snorted a tall, thin man sporting rather too much in the way of facial hair calligraphy. "If you didn't bring it into the kitchen, don't remove it from the kitchen. I don't know why that's so difficult a concept for some individuals to comprehend." I wanted to laugh at his exaggerated diction, as if he were one of those men who thought it somehow intellectual to never use a one-syllable word if a four-syllable one would do. Suddenly he noticed Moira and I giggling at him, and turned to stare at us, looking us up and down in a way that made me distinctly uncomfortable. "If you have any comestibles you wish to keep, I would recommend writing your name on them, or this pilfering rapscallion will help himself to them."

"Love you, too, darling," called Babyface - or, rather Daniel - after him with an insouciant grin as the tall man hauled his frame up the narrow stairs. 

"God, I hate humans." Vague muttering echoed from the staircase. "It's at times like this, I most miss my dog."

"Back to the tour, the downstairs lounge is usually for the crew, as their bunks are through there." Daniel pointed forwards, to a narrow passage that seemed to lead through to the driver's cabin. "Upstairs there are two lounges," he explained as he followed his bandmate up the stairs. "The back one is the smoking area because it's the only place the windows open, the front is non-smoking but it has the game player. We will totally be judging your personality based on which one you spend more time in." He winked and I found myself warming to him, despite the suspicious glares with which both Brandon and Facial-Hair Interpol were regarding him. "Have we sorted out the bunks yet? This is mine, of course, nearest the stairs..."

"So he can keep tabs on everyone's nocturnal perambulations, like a curtain-twitching old biddy," sneered Facial Hair. Him, I was taking a rather swift dislike to.

"We reckoned you could have this one," Brandon volunteered, gesturing to the bunk above his. "Unless you're afraid of heights."

"I'm not afraid of heights, but do I really have to listen to you snoring all night?" I teased, more out of habit than a genuine desire to wind him up.

"I do not snore," Brandon said petulantly.

"You do, you know," I flipped back knowingly, and he suddenly turned bright red then succumbed to an irresistible urge to check something inside his bunk.

"What about me?" Moira asked, and I could see her counting the bunks - 8 - and the number of musicians - 7 - and hoping for a bed of her own. 

But then Sam rolled up the stairs and tossed his hat into the bed below Daniel's. "Oh, I'm opposite Brando this time? Excellent, buddy. Look forward to it." He reached down, pumped Brandon's hand and slapped him on the back a few times before returning downstairs to fetch a crate of cigarettes. Finally the road manager appeared, and claimed the last open berth, and Moira's face fell.

"Looks like you'll just have to share with me," I offered. It wasn't so bad - the bunks were bigger than they looked from the outside, and Moira was actually tiny. Also I rather liked the idea of having backup in the enclosed space of the cabin, especially with so many unfamiliar men sleeping so nearby. Or was it even the unfamiliar men nearby I was worried about, so much as the overly familiar one underneath?

All at once, two pairs of ears seemed to prick up across the way, as Daniel and Facial Hair both exchanged curious leers. "And if either of you try peeking in our curtains at night in the hopes of catching some hot lesbo-sex action, I warn you, I sleep with a six-inch hat-pin under my pillow," Moira teased. She waited just a heartbeat long enough for the joke to sink in, then we looked at each other and collapsed into giggles. "Awkward!"

Alright, my second thoughts had completely worn off. It was going to be fun as hell having Moira along on the tour. I was so glad that she'd come - especially when she started unpacking bottles of coconut rum out of her carry-on bag and stashing them at the foot of our bunk.

"Brandon's going to hear them making out all night," Daniel whistled. "No wonder he chose that bunk."

"In your dreams," Moira flipped back, sticking her tongue out at him as the pulled the curtain closed. I had thought the bunk would be claustrophobic with the curtain drawn, but with the reading light on, it was actually surprisingly snug. I could deal with this being my home for the next three months, especially as Moira was sticking up pictures of Michael Fassbender and Ryan Gosling and the blessed Beyonce to make it look more like home. "Shall we tease them a bit?" she whispered to me as she started to arrange her girly things on the small shelf.

"Behave yourself. I do have to live and work with them for the next few months." Still, I nabbed a tube of her hand lotion and rubbed a bit into my wind-bitten knuckles.

"Oh, Charley," Moira sighed, then her eyes sparkled. "Oh, Charley! Oh, Charley, oh! Oh! Oh!"

"Fuck off," I giggled, and smacked her on the knee, with a slightly more audible slap that I intended.

"You know I love it when you're rough with me!" Moira chirped loudly.

"Some feminist you are, performing faux-lesbian sex for the male gaze or male ears, in this case," I said dismissively, in a parody of the sort of thing that Moira would usually say to me.

"Oh, you're no rock'n'roll fun," Moira huffed, and dug in her bag for her iPad. Right, good idea. Nothing happened for certain in her life unless she had documented it on the internet, on Twitter and Tumblr and Facebook, so I might as well open up my own phone and watch my own life unfold in mediated space through Moira's eyes. Heck, I'd probably learn more about my tourmates from a few tweets from her than I would in a month of touring.

Oh, that was unusual. I had a follow request on twitter. I had a locked account, partly because I didn't want Chris following my trials and travails in New York, but mostly because I used it to keep up with a few friends from back home and didn't want to worry about what I said. I followed Brandon and Josh and Paul, mostly out of a sense of duty, as none of them tweeted more than once a month, but now an "Interpol" was asking to follow me. I checked to make sure it was not an actual law enforcement agency, and saw some of the tweets were signed.

"Is Daniel Kessler our babyface pervert Daniel?" I asked innocently.

"God, Charley, you are so ignorant how did you even get invited on this tour?" Moira huffed. "Of course it is."

"OK. So who played bass for Hawkwind after Lemmy left to found Motorhead?" I shot back.

Moira actually looked surprised. "Lemmy from Motorhead was in Hawkwind?"

"Who's the ignorant one now?"

"Next, you'll be telling me you don't know who Carlos D is!"

I just looked blankly at her and shrugged.

She burst into giggles, then started to twirl an imaginary moustache. "You b-b-beastly philistines simply do not c-c-comprehend the genius of my vast intellect."

We had both collapsed into cackles of laughter, when there was a soft rap on the frame of the bunk. I twitched the curtain open to see Josh standing outside. "We're gonna be leaving in about five minutes, so do you wanna do one last idiot check round the Fire Station to make sure we didn't leave anything of yours behind?" So I climbed down out of our bunk and looked round the studio for the last time.

\-----

The opening night of the tour was in Boston. I had wondered why it wasn't in New York but on studying the tour itinerary, I realised it was quite sensible to have the New York show about halfway through the tour, so we could all have a few days off at home before resuming our journey again. We would start on the Eastern Seaboard - a cluster of shows in Boston, Portland, Northampton and Burlington, before heading up to Canada, and making our way under the Great Lakes to the big Midwestern cities. Back up to Canada, up over to the West Coast, down the coast, across through the Southwest and down to Texas, then down to Mexico for a week of shows. Return to NYC for a few days off, two shows at Roseland, then we were headed back down the East Coast, Florida, the Gulf States, and another circuit around the centre, hitting all those states in the middle that I didn't even think of as having music scenes at all - St Louis and Denver and Salt Lake City - but actually had intimidatingly huge venues, judging by the capacities listed on the itinerary. It was going to be exhausting - but by the end of it, I could officially claim that there was not a state in the Continental US I had not visited.

I had never been to Boston before. I had expected it to be all cute and Ye Olde Worlde, full of little wooden buildings, but it was just another modern city glimpsed from the tourbus windows, and the back alley behind the venue where we loaded in smelled just as bad as NYC. The crew said they were fine with humping our gear as well, but as Josh and Brandon put their backs in to move it, I thought I better do so, too, and piled our gear in a small pile at the front of the auditorium, just off to the side of the much bigger pile of Interpol's instruments, amplifiers and lighting rig. The crew set to work like a well-organised hive of ants, turning the pile of boxes into something approaching a stage set-up as the rock stars wandered off to investigate the situation backstage.

Being the support band was a bizarre experience - like being invited to someone else's party and getting to see all their food and drink without actually being allowed to eat it. Interpol had a massive backstage suite with a full bar's worth of booze laid on, and platters and platters of cheese and coldcuts and fruit salad. We had a small dressing room barely bigger than my kitchen - though it did boast the first of many showers that we would start to feel very, very grateful for - with a spread of exactly two six-packs of cheap beer and a couple of bags of cheesey puffs.

"I think these are actually vegan," Brandon observed, studying the bag carefully. It was actually the first time he'd spoken to me since the bunkbed incident. "There's no actual dairy product listed in the ingredients."

"I'll pass, thanks," I shrugged and looked at the schedule to work out if I would have the time to get supper before the show, or if I should wait until after.

There was a knock on the door, and I answered, thinking it was just Moira, catching up with us at last, but instead it was a small, babyfaced rock star bearing gifts. "They've given us a vegan platter, even though none of us are vegan, and Carlos is actually allergic to Hummus, blows up in hives at even the sight of a chick pea... but a little bird told me this might not go amiss here?"

"A little ginger bird with an Irish accent, I'm guessing?" I sighed, wondering if this was another gift that was going to come with as many strings attached as the Telecaster. Gifts from rock stars were never what they seemed.

"Ooh, hummus," said Josh with a Homer Simpson-esque burst of pleasure, as he swiftly took the platter before Daniel could change his mind. "I love Mediterranean food. Are there any of those grape-leaf wrapped things? Mmmm. Ooh yeah."

"Little blond bird, actually, lesser spotted Banks. Well, very spotted and moley Banks, to be honest - but it was definitely my idea to bring it over." It was actually quite cute the way he wanted credit for it, so I relented as I dipped a celery stick in some tahini. If Brandon was going to be distant and weird, and Moira was going to defect to our headliner's dressing room, would it actually really be so bad to indulge in some tour-based flirtation of my own? 

"I really appreciate it," I told him, taking a baby carrot next, and savouring it a little too explicitly with my lips.

"I... erm..." He stopped his smooth, salesman-like patter and stared, nibbling at his own lips as if in sympathy as I sexually assaulted the carrot. It was ridiculous how easy it was to distract men. But then he smiled, and shook his head as if snapping himself out of it. "Well, I'm vegetarian. I know how hard it is to get decent food on the road. I always have to ask for it specially."

"Wait, we're not putting you out, then. If this is your dinner..."

"No, no, I've got... a cheese platter, I'm fine." He grinned one of those _please-like-me_ smiles a little too readily. Or maybe I was being ridiculous and arrogant and reading something into his behaviour when he was just trying to be nice to the new kid on the block. So I smiled and offered him one of our beers, ignoring Josh's aghast expression at giving away any of limited supply, but Daniel graciously shook his head. "I don't actually drink domestic beer. But you're welcome to come round our dressing room to check out my selection of English and European craft ales. Can I interest you in an authentic Belgian pilsner?"

I had to suppress the urge to giggle. It wasn't anything he said, it was just the drop-dead beer-snob seriousness with which he said it, belied though it was by that babyfaced grin. I really wished that Moira was around so we could laugh ourselves silly over hipsters and their artisanal ales. "Thanks, I might..." Brandon shot me a filthy look, and I remembered guiltily that we still had to draw up our own setlist for the evening. "After the show, maybe?"

After Daniel bowed, slightly stiffly, and withdrew, Brandon took great pleasure in telling me "Just so you know, he has a long-term girlfriend that lives in Europe."

"As if," I sputtered. Was Brandon going to appoint himself the conscience of Interpol's home-bound partners for the entire length of the tour? "I'm just being friendly. Am I _allowed_ to be friendly with our headlining band?"

"I'm just warning you. Musicians on the road have very different expectations of what... _friendly_... means... and doesn't mean. I'm just trying to warn you, be careful of Dan, especially when he's being charming," Brandon huffed paternally, sounding for all the world like the father of a teenage girl invited to the prom by a hoodlum.

"I have been a musician for fully half my life, you know," I shot back. "I know what happens on the road."

"It's different for girls," Brandon muttered. "You don't know what it's like. I'm sure you haven't experienced..." He crossed and uncrossed his legs like a pearl-clutching old auntie. "You know, there are fangirls, and then there are _groupies_."

I did actually burst out laughing at Brandon. "If you think I've never experienced groupies, because I'm a girl, well, Brandon, you're a lot more naive than I thought. I've _had_ groupies." I let that sink in for a moment, watching his face grow confused, then turned to Josh. "I'm going to go and watch their soundcheck. Do you want to come? And bring the hummus?"

"Sure thing." Josh pushed off the dressing table where he was perched, stuffing a couple of pita breads in his pockets and picking up the tub of hummus.

So we went back out to the auditorium and perched on our own amps, down on the floor, watching as if we had our own private rock show. Josh was a fantastic person to watch a gig with, he seemed to know everything about the technical side of the show from his work as a soundman.

"See, Sam's got in-ear monitors, but I never liked them. I prefer a good old wedge behind the drums, provides a more naturalistic sound. Brandon swears by them, but I see you don't."

"I've never tried them," I confessed. I didn't mind confessing my ignorance to Josh, as he never made me feel like an asshole for whatever my choices were.

"They're supposed to be good if you do a lot of vocals. I could always find a pair for you to borrow, you could try 'em out and see if you like them?" he offered.

"Oh god, no. I actually sing better if I can't hear a note I'm singing. Kinda like I tell myself I actually play guitar better if I can't hear myself over Brandon's amp?" I couldn't help myself, as soon as he was out of earshot the catty came out.

"Come on, Charley. This is only night 1 of a 3 month tour. You are officially not allowed to start hating each other until at least 6 weeks in. At which point I will officially move to the back lounge, even if Sam does take my ass at high stakes poker."

I grumbled something conciliatory and extracted one of the pita breads from his pocket, looking around the room to try and spot Moira. And there she was, actually up on the stage, sitting on top of one of the amplifier cases like she was Miss Pamela fucking Debarge, scribbling away on her iPad. You know, Brandon's warnings about behaving like a groupie were wasted on me, but there was someone else in our party that should have had them aimed in her direction.

But I just waved to her, and ate my supper down on the floor with Josh, watching the soundcheck with interest, more to see what I could learn than anything else. It was a really intensive soundcheck - I never would have had the patience to play at least a minute and a half of every single song to check that the sound was right. I watched carefully to see how they handled guitar change-overs with the remote inputs, though it wouldn't make sense for me to get one of them, given how tied to the pedalboard I was. But most of all, I watched how they handled themselves on stage. Paul barely bothered performing - perhaps he was saving it for the show that night, but he was very workaday and businesslike, perhaps even grumpy, for the length of the soundcheck. Carlos, by contrast, couldn't seem to stop himself posing, even between songs when he wasn't playing, arching his back and crooking his hips just so, as if he'd practised in the mirror for so long his face and body had just frozen that way. Daniel was the only one of them who seemed to properly lose himself in the music, and actually get into it, as if he had forgotten that other people were actually watching, dancing like a man possessed, bending back at impossible angles until I thought his back would break, until he finally snapped back to the mic stand with fancy footwork. But that was the thing - I knew that footwork like that, leaping about while still playing guitar so perfectly, it took effort, it took practice. And yet Daniel, still, gave the impression that he was dancing up there, solely for his own pleasure.

"You know," said Josh as he finished the last of the hummus with his fingers. "I'm not a girl, so I know I don't really get it, but I do have to admit... they always look so fucking _cool_ onstage. I'm kinda jealous."

"God, I know," I sighed. "Watching them, I am going to have to raise my game. I resolve, from here on out, I am going to at least try to be cool. That means I am never going to forget myself and just jump up and down like a loon onstage."

"Ha ha, no, it's cute when you do that. Ben used to do the same thing - he'd get so excited, I knew it was a really good gig if he started doing his little dance." Josh sat up and started to do a terrifyingly accurate impression of Benjamin's hyperactive little-boy shuffle. "But you're not like that, you're more of a..." He started to sway his hips and shoulders from side to side, almost like stripper moves.

"Oh my god, I'm mortified. If I look like that, I am never moving from my spot onstage again."

"Nah, I'll get to you. You'll see. I'll make you dance. That's the thing about being The Beatkeeper. I have the power - me and the big drums," he promised. "We'll get you dancing."

As the soundcheck drew near its end, Brandon finally emerged from backstage and made his way over to stand beside us, glowering from underneath his hair up at his friends on the stage. "This is the bit I hate. The waiting," he muttered.

"It's better when you're the support band, though," I observed. "Set up, soundcheck, then play almost immediately. Don't have time to get bored."

"Yeah, but depending on the band, sometimes their soundcheck overruns and you end up having to soundcheck in front of the audience - if you get one at all." Brandon crossed his arms across his chest and leaned back against his amp.

I turned to him, panic-struck. That wasn't something I'd even thought of. The idea of going onstage in such a huge venue, without having had a soundcheck. "You don't think that'll happen tonight, do you?"

Onstage, Paul wound up the song and walked right up to the edge of the stage, putting his hand up to his face and peering out into the space where the audience would be. "You heard that, Brandon? What did you think, did it sound OK?"

Brandon sat up, and I could see it flickering on his face, wondering if he should be honest, or just try to hurry his friend offstage so we could get on. "Sounds good. Really crisp. It's... well, it's a bit heavy on the low end, bit boomy, but..." His voice trailed off as he turned to Josh for support.

"It's the room," Josh nodded. "That'll go once you get an audience in here, they'll soak that right up."

"OK, we're done, I guess," Paul finally conceded, and gestured for everyone to clear the stage. I waved to Moira, wondering if she was going to stick around for our soundcheck, but she glided almost immediately up to Paul's side, and followed him offstage. Well, so much for female solidarity.

Daniel handed his guitar to his roadie, and almost immediately leapt down into the pit to make his way towards us. "Break a leg," he told us, walking straight up to me with a wide smile that seemed to make Brandon stand up a bit straighter and glower a bit harder.

The roadies pushed the drum riser back a bit, and cleared the stage as much as they could, and then we were left to set up in the slightly smaller space that was left. Still, it was fine - in fact it was almost spacious compared to the cramped conditions at the Fire Station. It didn't even matter about the drum riser, as Josh always set his kit up on stage right, and Brandon set his keyboard up on stage left, facing him, and I somehow strung myself between the two of them in whatever space was left.

Over time, I was sure this would become familiar, but at that moment it took every ounce of concentration to get the set-up right. We didn't have roadies - and anyway, I wasn't sure I would ever trust anyone to do it right. 

_Amp head leaned to the side of amp, so I could get in closer for feedback without knocking any cables out. Plug in, switch to standby, then check all the knobs, getting them back at the settings I'd taped on the display dials. Locate my mic stand, haul it over, drop my pedalboard in front of it, and carefully lift of the cover. Quick check that nothing has moved about, then run the line back out from the pedals to the amp. Guitar - well, guitars, actually. Someone has made sure that the telecaster case is next to my jazzmaster case, with an extra stand left out for it. That's really sweet, must thank him after the show. Guitars. I'll tune them now, leave them out to acclimatise to the temperature of the hall, then tune them again just before we go on. Do I have time? Yeah, the soundman is still checking the drumkit. Go through my pedals one by one, checking the levels are still right. Soundman wants to put microphone directly in front of my guitar amp - no, that's a bad idea, I'll knock it over. I discretely move it around to the back and angle it so it's leaning down from above. That's better. Oh shit, he wants a level now? No, don't argue with me. "Trust me, it'll sound worse if I knock it flying between every song," I tell him, and the microphone stays._

_Line check. Vocal check. Brandon's vocal check. Can I hear myself in the monitor? More importantly, can I hear Brandon in the monitor? We sing together for a few moments, and a shiver goes down my spine. It still catches me unaware, sometimes, how our voices blend together, how I don't sound like a girl any more, how he doesn't sound like a boy, how we sound like a single voiced man-woman singing at octaves to one another._

_Are we ready? Shall we do a full song? Christ, those lights are bright. Why are they testing the stage lights while were on, I can't see a fucking thing, there's just a black hole where the audience should be. Brandon doesn't like it, he says we've got a few select stage lights of our own, very simple but very effective, like light canons shooting up into the heavens. He'll put them out after soundcheck is over. Shut up and play, Brandon, we haven't got much time, doors are in 20 minutes, time is tight._

_Josh kicks off and my heart leaps, the adrenaline kicking in. He's right, I can't help myself. His bass drum seems connected to the muscles in my legs. I dance even without meaning to._

_Brandon stops the song before it's even got going. Try another one, he needs to do a song he plays bass instead of keyboards on. We obediently switch gears and start again. I'm suddenly too hot on stage, those "energy-saving" halogen lights are fiercely hot, so I pull my sweater off and play on in my vest. Brandon is looking at me, his eyes locked into mine as we count off towards the post-chorus and the middle eight... yes! We both grin at one another as we all hit the explosive bridge in unison, like three halves of a puzzle._

We finished the song, asked if we could do another, but there was no time. Brandon wanted to set up our stage lights. I shrugged off my guitar, balanced it on its stand, then walked to the edge of the stage, peering off under the impossibly bright lights. They'd put the crash barriers up, but standing on the inside, where I would expect to see the bouncers, were four young-ish men in suits. It was like one of those weird rituals with a new class at high school, the freshmen watch the seniors, then the seniors watch the freshmen. Paul and Daniel were smirking because they'd seen this lineup before. Sam studied me carefully, then burst out laughing. "Brandon, was it really hard to find a chick so much like your little brother?"

"I look nothing like Ben," I sneered, bending over to recalibrate my new low-pass filter.

"You're absolutely right," drawled Carlos, looking at me in a way that made my skin crawl. "I could never see Benjamin's nipples, right through his shirt."

I looked down self-consciously, noticed that my sweat had made my white vest almost transparent, and felt my self confidence drain away to nothing. Whirling around, I seized my sweater to pull it over my head and cover myself. That fucker.

"Aw, now you've ruined the view for all of us, Dengler," laughed Daniel, and there went that tiny glimpse of hope that I might have had an ally in that band. Perverts, the lot of them. I switched my amp back to standby, and stalked from the stage, forgetting to even tune my guitars again.

Josh was a footfall behind me as I reached our dressing room. "Charley!" I whirled around to confront whatever he was going to throw at me. "Do you want me to have a word? That was out of line. If they'd said that about my wife, or my sister, well... I'd have thumped him."

"No," I sighed, though I was reassured somewhat by the actual outrage in his eyes. "I do appreciate the sentiment, but... it's like a kind of hazing, isn't it? If you run to the big boys to stop it, instead of shrugging it off yourself, it's only going to get worse once the big boys' backs are turned. I need to fight my own battles."

"There shouldn't be any battles, though. We're all mates, we've all been mates since forever. We're all on the same team, here."

I smiled sweetly at Josh, but wondered, had he ever really noticed, when there was a gang of 6 men, and 1 woman, was everyone ever, really on the same team?

Brandon appeared in the door of the dressing room and moved towards me. He looked, well... concerned. And not even that weird mixture of jealousy and resentment that he'd worn in the bus for most of the afternoon, he actually looked like he was worried about me and wanted me to be OK. "I've had a word," he said quietly.

Rolling my eyes, I sighed deeply. The only thing worse than a bunch of guys determined to make you feel like meat was that one guy with a White Knight complex who thought he could be your saviour. "You really didn't need to..." I muttered, looking down at the floor, so I didn't have to meet those eyes, and remember why I might have liked him.

"No, actually, I did. It's not cool to treat a member of our crew like that. It's not cool to treat _any_ woman like that. I don't want to be around that. I don't want to be the kind of guy who stands around and acts like that's just OK with me." He paused, tucking his long hair behind his ears. "This isn't just about you, though I know it makes you uncomfortable. This is about us, and the kind of people we are."

I stared at him for a long moment, waiting for him to say something totally arrogant and insufferable and... jerky. But it didn't come. He just went back to turning his guitar pick over and over in his hands, like a nervous habit. I didn't say anything, I just walked over to him, and wordlessly put my arms around his shoulders and gave him a quick squeeze, the barest of hugs, which he couldn't possibly read as saying anything except _thank you_.

Josh practically leapt upon us, enfolding us both in his wide arms and crushing us together. "Group hug, group hug!" he cried aloud, overriding our protests, then he pulled back and looked at us solemnly. "Look, guys. Remember. We're the support band. There are people out there who are just not going to be interested in us, no matter what. Fuck 'em. The important thing is, that we go out there, we do the best we can, and we have a good time. If the three of us are into it, they'll get into it. That's all that matters. We can do this, right?"

"Yup," I agreed, squeezing Josh back, though it was fairly obvious from the expression on Brandon's face that this little lecture hadn't actually been intended for me. This was all so new to me, it was exciting no matter what. But I couldn't imagine what it would be like to put something so painstakingly back together, only to throw yourself into a situation where most of the audience were almost guaranteed not to care about your thing at all.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Charley, the only thing more surreal then dealing with Interpol on tour, is dealing with Interpol's fans.
> 
> More disclaimers about this being ~fiction~ and in no way implying authorial disrespect to fans or fandom in general.

It was the worst, most nerve-racking half hour of every night, that half hour between when the doors opened - and we absolutely had to finish soundcheck - and when we went on. Brandon was right about the waiting - I had no idea that half an hour could become such an endless eternity. Every night, right when the doors opened, there were always a hard core of kids, mostly girls, who were waiting right outside, and made a run across the venue to get to the rail. After a couple of nights, I started to recognise faces. I'd see them at gig after gig, often for a day or two, within a loose geographical area, then they'd drop out and be replaced by others - only to turn up a week later at another venue, in the same spot on the rail.

Some of them seemed to be just really obsessive music fans, they were the ones who would actually listen and pay attention when we played, growing more appreciative of us, especially after Paul had told the audience at a couple of shows how much he liked us. In a funny way, I grew to love them... they reminded me so much of myself at that age, really. It was quite sweet, really, the starstruck way they interacted with Paul or Daniel after a gig - and actually quite heartening to see the way that their fannish affection could brighten the normally grumpy singer. But others - the Girls Who Stared At Paul, especially - they were a tough audience, glaring at us with barely disguised contempt, just waiting for us to get off the stage so they could see the objects of their affections again. There were one or two that really tried my patience, especially when they turned up backstage, or tried to plead their way onto the tourbus. I did not like fans on the tourbus, that was a real no-no for me. It was, after all, our home, the only private space we had for two and a half months. Backstage was one thing, especially after the gig, when everyone was relaxed and in the mood for a bit of harmless ego-stroking. But having strangers, in our space, poking around our home, well... sure. It wasn't my place to say they could or couldn't; we were all, technically, guests of Interpol. But that would come to grate over the weeks ahead, and divide the touring party far more effectively than "front lounge" vs "back lounge" - brings girls on the bus vs shoos the girls off the bus. Because they weren't even the obsessive fans, the ones that cared a bit too much but were generally at least music freaks you could have a conversation with about obscure post-punk bands that Carlos had mentioned in an interview once. Those girls could be a lot of fun. The Girls That Came On The Bus... well. We won't get into that just yet.

But the other fans, well, they varied. Every night it was a crap shoot, whether the venue would fill up early and stay full through our set, or whether we would play to a half-empty, cavernous hall which stayed empty and echoey until about five minutes before Interpol went on.

Some people, astonishingly enough, actually came for us. It warmed my heart, though I could barely believe that they were real. They waited outside, even if usually they wanted to talk to Brandon, get him to pose for pictures with them, and they crowded towards the stage during our performances, singing along with every word, at least during the old songs. And some people, we won over with our set. Josh liked those the best, claiming it was the magnetic power of his kick drum, because they might start the evening way up at the back of the hall, then slowly, as if they were being mesmerised, be drawn down towards the stage, until they were applauding and shouting for more at the end. But mostly, people were there for Interpol, and we were something they politely tolerated.

But that first night, it was still special. It was still fresh and new.

I climbed onstage before the house lights went down, to tune my guitars one more time. The Jazzmaster tended to hold its tuning, but the Telecaster was off already - no wonder Daniel wanted to get rid of it. And then I made the mistake of looking out into the hall while the house lights were still on.

People. Oh my god, so many people. Boston was a big market, Interpol did really well there, and the gig had been sold out for weeks. I had been in the audience in many, many sold out gigs, but I had never stood on the stage and looked out, at all those hundreds of faces, turning towards the stage like sunflower heads. This was... well, dizzying. Suddenly I was grateful for the wall of stage lights that turned the audience into a black hole. I didn't actually want to see this.

Loping quickly off the stage, I ran into Josh and Brandon, who handed me a towel and a bottle of water, then pointed back in the way I'd just come, as I saw the house lights dim. Not even time for our tequila ritual? Shit. Maybe it was better to face this sober, though. We found our places in the dark, switched our amps from standby to on, then Brandon felt with his foot for the lightswitch of our three arc-lights, pointed straight up to the ceiling in front of each of us.

Josh raised his drumsticks, and counted us in. I found my fingering, closed my eyes and waited for my cue. I was glad I did, as Brandon switched on the arc lights just as the first note sounded, and I was almost blinded. I stumbled for a moment, but found my footing and pushed on. The music arched from my fingertips like a fountain, the roar was overwhelming - the weird, echoey double sound, springing from my amp and my monitors one second, and being bounced back from the far wall a few moments later. It nearly threw me, and I found myself wishing for a pair of in-ear monitors like Brandon's, but I found my place and kept playing.

I was dazed, dazzled by the lights, overcome by the sheer volume and pressure of people, and yet I kept going purely on muscle memory. My fingers reached for the next string without my even having to tell them, foot reaching for pedal like I'd done a thousand times in rehearsal, and suddenly I felt very glad indeed of Brandon's anally retentive habit of going over everything a million times, back at the Fire Station.

Time stands still when you play a gig, and yet somehow rushes ahead on fast forward speed, much like I imagine the time distortions as you approach the speed of light or pass too close to a black hole. You can relive the moment of missing your distortion pedal's footswitch over and over and over again from every possible angle until the brief fumble seems to last an hour, but the same time, an eight minute song can collapse in on itself until it seems to have taken place in the space between two heartbeats. It's like dreaming while being awake. It's like being in love, that state of hyper-awareness where the sky seems more blue and birdsong seems more sweet and the warmth of sunlight is almost impossibly warm.

I looked over at Brandon and all the things I knew so well about him - the dark tinge where his beard came in, the low parting of his hair, the way his knees twitched up and down in time with the beat when he played the keyboard - they seemed sharpened into hyper-relief.

The music ebbed and flowed. It seemed impossible that the three of us, human beings as we were, were really in control of this monster. But the song ended and the sound drained away, to be replaced by polite applause, so it seemed that we had. One song? That was only one song? Entire empires had risen and fallen during that one song. Brandon muttered something into his mic, and I remembered that I had to drop to my knees and set my pedals up for the next song.

Aw, I knew this song a lot better, I could play this one in my sleep. My fingers slipped so easily along the fretboard that I allowed myself the luxury of looking out into the audience. Nope, that was too scary. I nearly lost my place, and had to drag my concentration back so I didn't flub the backing vocals. Maybe I could just look at the first couple of rows. If I concentrated just on them, I could pretend this was some tiny club in Chicago. One of the boys in the second row was staring at me with obvious interest, head turned slightly to the side and mouth open, like he couldn't believe he was really seeing a girl, onstage, playing guitar, so I looked directly at him and winked. He nearly fell over. Ha ha, I remembered how odd that was. I'd been down there so many times, standing in the front row of a concert, watching the stage, I'd forgotten that when you were that close, you couldn't just see them, they could see you, too. I turned back to my strings, and finished the song, smirking to myself.

By the third song, I had actually started to relax. I could enjoy this, I could lean back and actually bask in the sound, suspended as if in mid-air, in front of god knows how many people. But by the fourth song, I felt a bit sad. That meant our set was already half over - our entire 40-minute set was only 6 songs on most nights, but Brandon said it was better to leave them wanting more than outstay our welcome and make them resent us. I looked over at Josh, and he was actually laughing at me. What? Had my trousers fallen down? Were my nipples showing again? He winked and I realised I was dancing in place again, swivelling my hips back and forth in time to his backbeat. Fuck it, I thought, and leapt in the air again and again, landing with every wallop of the floor tom, then moved forward to slam on the next layer of distortion pedals as the song kicked into another gear.

I risked another look at the front row, and some of them had actually come with us, shaking their heads back and forth in time with the music, smiling as they watched us, entranced. Yes. If I made so much as one audience member turn around and smile, then that made the night worthwhile. I grinned back at the girl right in front of me, and shook my hair in time with her, and she raised her hands towards me like I was on fire, and she could catch my warmth, shouting at the top of her lungs. Christ, it was easy to see how this kind of thing could be addictive.

Fifth song. We always tried to slow it down for this one, play something gentle, to give the audience time to catch their breaths, before pummelling them into submission with the ten-minute krautrock onslaught of our last song. I looked over at Brandon to get his nod-in, and he was actually grinning, his silver tooth glinting in the spotlight. I knew that look, I knew that oh my god, this is the best thing in the world look, he always did it right before he came... Nope, don't think of that. Wait for the nod and his sharp intake of breath, then blend your voice with his, right as the first piano chord strikes. His eyes never left mine, I never stopped looking back. A moment of absolute beauty and perfection, shared just between the two of us, alone with 2000 people.

And then that soft, ticka-ticka-ticka building on the floor tom as Josh came in, and built the tickle to a shuffle, and the shuffle to a rumble, and then the rumble to the earth-shaking pounding of spaceship Secret Machines blasting off to the stars. I could play this riff forever. I would play this riff forever if given half a chance - we'd done 30 minute, 40 minute versions of this song in rehearsal, stretching it out, slowing it down before turning it inside out and back to front, then picking it back up and running with it down the hall and out into the street, and down the open road at a hundred miles an hour. It was hypnotic to listen to, but to play it, that was a kind of meditation, like a musical form of tai chi, forcing my fingers into the chords' shapes over and over again like an exercise, like a dance, like the whirring of cosmic clockwork guiding the motion of the planets. In some ways, it was like a race, each of us trying to outdo the others, but at other moments, it was just like making love.

And at that moment, I turned subconsciously back to Brandon, and his eyes met mine, and I saw from the twinkle in his eye and the blush on his cheek that he had had exactly the same thought. And in that moment, I would have forgiven him everything.

I could have gone on forever. But Brandon had his watch propped up on the top of his Rhodes, binding us to the iron regulation of the running order. Our time was up. He stood up, capturing Josh's attention, then with a casual flick of his wrists, brought us all off. He and Josh hammered the beats of the phrase as I took my last solo, a flaming eruption off the top of the riff for two complete bars, and then we stopped. Dead. Not even the squeal of feedback, as I'd learned to trigger the bypass on my tuner, just the faint echo of Brandon's Memory Man repeating the last few notes as he bent his head to his mic to address the shellshocked crowd.

"Thanks for listening. Thanks to Interpol for having us. Have a great night."

And it was over.

The girl in the front row was waving desperately, trying to catch my attention. I straightened up and walked over, and saw her pointing at my feet. Oh. My setlist. What a sweetie. This was an actual first. She had badges all over the backback she'd hung from the rail - clearly she went to a lot of shows, and probably had a whole collection of setlists. But this was the actual first time that any fan had ever asked me for my setlist. I was almost tempted to ask her to take a photo of the moment, but instead, I just leaned down and handed it to her with a thumbs up.

Another girl on the other side was trying to get my attention, so I wandered over, shrugging to show I had no more setlists, but she was pointing to Brandon's keyboard. Ah, yes. I picked up Brandon's setlist to hand to her, but another girl snatched it out of her hands. They started to squabble, but I looked about for something else. How about Brandon's water bottle? I could remember my own teenage fangirl days, which weren't that far away. Something that a pop star had touched with their actual lips, and might contain their very DNA... The girl nodded enthusiastically, and I passed it to her, underhanded, so no one else could grab it from her, hoping that Brandon wouldn't turn around and see what I was doing, as I didn't want to have to explain that one.

When I went back to my side of the stage, feeling like I'd done a good deed, I emptied what was left of my water bottle onto my towel and rubbed my face, then scrambled to get my own gear out of the way. Pedalboard first, I would never let anyone else touch that. Then the guitars, wiping them down gently with an old t-shirt before putting them in their cases. (I hadn't even needed the tele.) Then I switched off my amp and unplugged it, pushing it back, out of the way, as Interpol's roadies and the venue's staff swarmed the stage, getting it ready for their set.

As I shuffled offstage, I found Brandon, slumped up against the wall, looking completely shagged out and exhausted. "You did good," I told him, and patted him gently on the upper arm, though really, I just wanted to touch him, wanted to wrap my arm around his waist and pull him towards me - wanted to do more than that, really, wanted to push him up against the wall and shove my tongue down his throat, but I didn't even dare to think about that.

"Yeah?" He looked up at me and smiled, one of those rare genuine smiles that made it seem like the sun had come out at last.

"We all did good," announced Josh, slower coming off the stage as he'd had to move his entire drumkit off the stage as it was. After Interpol had played, he would have to take it to pieces bit by bit and stick it back in its cases, but for now the three of us were free to just grin at one another, catching our breaths.

The lads appeared at the bottom of the backstage stairs, and filed past us slowly. Paul was grinning as he approached us. "That was _amazing_ , Brandon. I knew my trust in you wasn't misplaced. You set the bar so high, it's actually inspiring to have to go on after you," he told Brandon sincerely as he pumped his hand.

Sam nodded at us, but it was me he sought out, holding his hand towards me in a gesture of reconciliation. "Nice outfit." He nodded at my suit, pushing his hat back on his head. "Wonder where you got that idea."

"Marlene Dietrich," I shot back swiftly, then I grinned and shook his hand before hugging him.

"Oi. Watch the lapels," he whistled, brushing himself down as he pulled away, but I just laughed, too giddy and high to be offended by anything.

"Get a new tailor. Or read Norman Mailer," I quipped, winking at Paul.

"The Lloyd!" Daniel held his hand to his heart. Oh god, not another one. "You know, you should try a hollowbody for Lightning Blue Eyes, give you that perfect Robert Quine tone..."

"Oh, and I'm sure you have one to sell me," I teased, poking him lightly in the belly, so he couldn't accuse me of rumpling his suit lapels. He danced away from me like he was ticklish, but his eyes lit up as he looked back at me and I was still riding such an onstage high that I actually forgot I was still smarting from his earlier comment and thought, you know... maybe... There was still that English Ale or Continental Lager or whatever that he owed me, after all.

Carlos had nothing to say to me, he just walked by with that awful expression on his face, that might almost have been a smile if it wasn't for the exaggerated cock of his eyebrows which made me want to punch him in the mouth. Wait, no, Josh was right, I wasn't allowed to start hating anyone this early into the tour, especially as it really wasn't reasonable to hate someone quite so much based on so few words exchanged. Except that was it, wasn't it? When Brandon smiled like that, it made him look like he was in on a secret no one else knew, that you wanted him to let you in on it. When Carlos smiled like that, it made him look like he was in on a secret that no one else knew, and he was judging the fuck out of you for not knowing it.

I ignored him as he made his way towards the stage and turned back to Brandon, trying to resist the urge to put my finger through the little loop in his suit trousers that his too-tight belt had made stick out. Everything about him at the moment just made me want to touch him. He turned back towards me, caught me staring, and for a second, it looked like he was feeling exactly the same way. But then he smiled, raised one eyebrow, gestured with his eyes back towards Carlos, then made a huge, exaggerated motion of rolling his eyes, then grinned back at me slyly. I laughed and nodded my agreement, and he beamed, moving slightly closer to me, even in the crowded stage corridor.

And then Moira appeared from nowhere. She looked, rattled, smoothing down her dress. "Jaysus Christ, backstage is crawling with girls," she sniffed, seemingly ignoring the fact that both she and I were, in point of fact, girls, backstage. She had got hold of a whole bottle of white wine, it seemed, and she offered it to me, politely wiping the mouth on her skirts before passing it over.

"Too much competition, huh?" I teased, following her eyes as they followed Paul up the steps to the stage. Brandon frowned and stepped away from me again.

She stuck her tongue out at me, then changed her mind and looked to me for solidarity, taking me by the wrist and tugging gently. "You coming to watch the show?"

"Yeah, alright," I shrugged, and turned around to invite Brandon, but he was fuming, and slinking away quietly back towards the dressing room. Oh, for fucks sake, had he got it into his head that I was now going to have a steamy affair with Daniel, just because I'd gone to watch our headlining band? Blow it out your arse, Brandon, you're my bandmate, not my boyfriend. No matter what Alley says.

So instead I climbed the stairs, holding onto Moira's hand as we picked our way to the best view from the wings. We'd ended up on Daniel's side of the stage, I discovered to my delight, when I saw the rack of beautiful guitars all lined up for him. As he saw the dim glow from Moira's iPad, he caught sight of us and turned towards us. I knew he was only showing off the guitar for my benefit, gesturing towards the well-formed body of his Gretsch, so big it made his own body look like toy in comparison, but I pushed Moira to take a photo, as he posed like a smiling showgirl.

Almost immediately, it was on Instagram, and cross-posted to Twitter: Here's the new object of @CharleyWTF's undying lust: Daniel Kessler of @Interpol (or at least his Gretsch)

I just laughed and RT'd it without thinking, then took the bottle back from her and swigged deeply. God, yes, I needed this to wind down the excitement and nerves of the show, and relax me into enjoying the rest of the gig.

Moira giggled and swooned along with the rest of the front row as Paul stepped up to the mic, cleared his throat gently, then announced in his deepest, rolling voice "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. It's good to be back."

I just did not see the appeal, even as she fanned herself over his every movement, occasionally turning to me and burying her face in my suit jacket when it got too much for her. "Oi, watch the lapels," I laughed, looking over at Sam, who appeared still curiously unrumpled. It just wasn't fair, the way they could all play a gig, and still look like they'd just stepped out of the pages of GQ.

"He is so fucking beautiful I can't even stand it. Someone call heaven because they are missing an angel," she sighed, as I reached out an arm and wrapped it reassuringly around her shoulders, filled with affection for my ridiculous and hilarious best friend.

"I do not get it. He is not my type at all, but if it makes you happy..."

"Yeah, I know what your type is," Moira whispered back. "Sullen, pouting, bad-tempered bass players. Well, we've got a whole selection of them for you tonight!" She pointed over at Carlos and we both started to giggle loudly enough that Daniel looked up from his guitar, then winked at us.

"As if," I snorted, and blew Daniel a kiss. Let Brandon just pout at that, bass-boy. Oh god, and there was Brandon, reappeared at the top of the backstage stairs. I looked over him and waved, gesturing for him to join us, and Moira gave me a little squeeze as if to say, _I saw that_ and leered at him. He got that weird, wounded expression in his eyes and scurried off again. Oh, for fucks sake. I swigged another mouthful of wine. I should just fuck Daniel, tonight, give him a blowjob in the rear lounge of the bus, and see what Brandon thought about that, if I was going to get that dirty a look for just blowing a kiss. So I ignored him and turned back to the show, even as Moira clung to my arm and stretched up onto her tippy-tippy toes to whisper in my ear, how adorable that thing that Paul just did with his mouth really was.

But I knew it wouldn't last. I had my best friend back again only as long as Paul was onstage, and after the encores were over, she fluttered straight back to his side, flattering him and telling him everything she thought had been particularly amazing about the gig. I tried to stay by her side during the aftershow party, as Brandon had disappeared and I didn't really know anywhere else there, but I had to admit, I found it heavy going. She was clever enough to make it not sound like blatant flattery, and she really was skilled at coming up with vivid and emotional descriptions of music, it was why she kept managing to find paying jobs in an industry that was floundering. And Paul ate it up, listening attentively, as if he had actually found a music journalist who had actually grokked what he was trying to do, musically. But there was a part of me that was annoyed. Could he not see it? She was spouting this stuff because she wanted to get in his pants. Or maybe she believed it all - and that was why she wanted to get in his pants so badly. But still, it irritated me. I liked them well enough as people - well, mostly - and I was certainly grateful to them for the opportunity that they had afforded my band. But I couldn't listen to it all night.

So I went back to our own dressing room, gathered up my things and made my way back to the tour bus. There were kids out there, too, fans who hadn't been able to get into the aftershow, gathered in little clumps with posters and sharpies in hand. I had noted that Paul and Daniel seemed to travel everywhere with sharpies in their pockets - well, now I knew why. Half of me wished I could do something more for them, go back and fetch one of the Interpol boys to stand and chat with them, but the other half of me was actually slightly relieved that they were totally disinterested in me, so that I could slip unnoticed from the backstage doors, and climb my way onto the deserted purple tourbus. Except it wasn't completely deserted - Brandon was there, sitting downstairs, sprawled across a pair of isolated seats right at the back of the bus, his nose absorbed in a book, a pair of white iPhone earbuds peeking out under his hair. Just as I was trying to make up my mind whether to speak to him or ignore him, he looked up.

He smiled when he saw I was alone, as I wrenched the door of the bus shut behind me, and pulled one of the buds from his ears. "Hey."

"Why are you not at the party."

"I could ask you the same question," he said. I merely shrugged in reply. "Yeah, it gets kind of old kind of fast. There will be a party every night for the next three months. I just don't have the stamina for it any more. I think sometimes I actually prefer curling up with a book and a cup of tea, to going to parties anyway," he confessed.

I looked at him, and sighed. And in the back of my mind, I just thought, Oh you beautiful man. There's some alternate universe where you and I are not in a rock band, where we are just an old married couple, living together in a little cottage in the woods, stuffed to the rafters with old books. But instead I shrugged again, and leaned against the kitchenette counter, trying to find one of Moira's camomile teabags. "I think I'm going to bed. Do you want anything?"

He looked up at me with a starry-eyed expression of almost infinite longing. "I want everything. I want the sun and the moon and the stars in the sky, I want the universe, I want..." But then he stopped himself, as if realising he was being absurd. "Nah, I'm good. Sleep well." He watched in silence as I made myself a cup of tension tamer tea, until his pocket pinged. Grinning, embarrassed, he pulled his iPhone from his pocket and checked his messages, then started to laugh.

"What is it?"

"My brother," he replied, offering the phone to me so I could see the picture in his inbox. "He's turning my studio into a blanket-fort."

"That's adorable," I told him, looking at a selfie taken by Benjamin, showing him and Alley both sitting in the empty cavern of the Fire Station beneath a canopy of freshly laundered sheets, holding a sign between them that said Good Luck With The Tour!!!

"They're good people, my family," Brandon agreed, smiling down at the photo. "And Charley..."

"Yeah?"

"You did good tonight. I'm real proud of you."


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the tour progresses, various Bromances start to develop between Secret Machines and Interpol - Sam and Brandon have a bromance over cherry pie, Josh and Paul have a bromance over videogames, and even Charley gets a bromance of her own over nicked guitar riffs.

I didn't think I would sleep. The bus was noisy, and my tourmates woke me up as they clattered on board in the middle of the night, but oddly, when the bus was in motion, the engine noise actually drowned out the squeaks and giggles of whatever they were up to. I closed my eyes again, and when I opened them again, it was morning, and we were in another state.

Except the pillow next to mine, the frilly, girly one with the cotton eyelets on the cover, it was untouched. Either Moira had not been to bed, or she had slept somewhere else. I didn't want to think about it, I just wanted to stumble downstairs and find a cup of coffee and maybe a granola bar.

Except, there were girls in the kitchen. Two of them, a blonde and a brunette, both the sort of stupidly pretty, overly made-up kind of super-girly girls I'd hated since high school. Sitting at the table in the downstairs lounge, giggling to themselves about something, in much the same tone that Moira and I had been giggling in the wings of the Interpol show the previous night. But what the fuck were girls doing, in a tourbus currently wending its way through the wilds of Maine? My mind raced, then I calmed myself. No, don't jump to conclusions. They might be the crew's girlfriends. They might be super-fans we were giving a lift to the next show. They might be journalists from local newspapers, even. (As the police seemed to get younger to me every year, the fanzine writers did, too.) They might be anyone.

But one of them addressed me first as I pulled my breakfast bar from the tupperware box marked CHARLEY'S EXTRA SPECIAL VEGANS ONLY RABBIT FOOD KEEP OUT (THAT MEANS YOU TOO DANIEL KESSLER). "So... who are you with?"

I turned back towards them and shrugged, feeling a bit cold in the vest and leggings I'd been sleeping in. "I'm with Secret Machines."

The brunette nodded as if that settled it, but the blonde remained curious. "No... which one are you with? The Mexican one, the singer dude or the new boy?"

I narrowed my eyes at them. "I _am_ the new boy," I said, a little too harshly, and took my cup of instant coffee and my granola bar upstairs. Upstairs, there were signs of life - or at least, there was Moira emerging sleepily from the front lounge. "And where did you sleep last night?" I teased, winking at her.

"It was really late when we got in - and you were out cold, I didn't want to wake you. So I slept in the lounge." She looked longingly at my cup. "Ooh, is that coffee?"

"Yeah, do you want a sip?" I passed it over for her. "Leave some for me!"

"I'll make you another cup."

"Watch out, there are actual..." I lowered my voice to a mock-shocked tone. "... _groupies_ down in the kitchen. Like, I didn't think they even existed any more, but those are proper, full-on, _I'm With The Band_ groupies down there. Like, I keep expecting Jimmy Page to appear out of nowhere and stuff a baby shark up someone's snatch!"

Moira started to giggle with her hand over her mouth. "Maybe I can go down and interview them for the Rolling Stone piece. Add that certain period authenticity."

"Just be careful you have a cover story about who you're _with_ ," I teased. "They asked me if I was fucking the new boy from Secret Machines - ha! Heck, I should have asked them right back who they were _with_. They'd probably have boasted about it."

"Who do you think they were with?" Moira sighed as she started down the stairs.

"Paul?" She looked a little too outraged and shook her head just a little too quickly. "No?" She made a face and pretended to flatten her fringe across her forehead in imitation of a Hitler Hairdo while twirling an imaginary moustache. "Ew."

As soon as she was gone, the curtain below me opened, and a face appeared in the gap. "I thought you were a woman of the world, and you were au fait with groupies," Brandon teased.

"Don't worry, I'm just jealous. If I'd realised there were teenage girls going, I'd have demanded one myself," I shrugged and hopped back into bed. He grabbed my foot by the ankle and gave it a good tug. "Ow!"

"What makes you think I want to smell your skank-ass feet in my face."

I was about to bend down and remind him exactly what he'd done with my skank-ass feet only a few weeks previously, when the curtain opposite opened, and Daniel's grinning face emerged. "Do I smell coffee?"

"Better run downstairs and catch Moira if you want a cup. That is, if Carlos' groupies don't get her first."

"Ooh, I can get groupies with my coffee?" Daniel drawled, swinging his legs out of the bed, so I couldn't help but notice he slept in perfectly ironed silk pyjamas, the creases down his legs nearly as sharp as his suit trousers. "Better hurry before we run out." In a flash, he was out of the bed and heading for the stairs.

"Hear that, Brandon? They're having a bit of a run on groupies right now. Better hurry," I said, taunting him. Brandon was most definitely not wearing pyjamas, silk or otherwise - he was sleeping in the same oversized trackie bottoms and faded heavy metal T-shirt I knew so well. But as my attention was diverted, he made another grab for my ankle, snapping his teeth playfully, but I pulled my leg back up into the bed. "If you bite me, I swear I'm gonna..."

"You used to like it when I bit you," Brandon muttered, almost under his breath.

God damn, Brandon, I still do. It was you that got weird and ended it, not me. I was about to say it aloud, when a curtain twitched open further down the bus.

"Daniel, if you're going downstairs for a cup of coffee would you mind getting me one, too." It wasn't even a request, it was a demand. But Daniel just ignored him and carried on skipping down the stairs as if he hadn't heard. "Daniel? Christ, you are so inconsiderate!" Carlos huffed deeply and tugged the curtain shut again with a long-suffering sigh.

Brandon and I, startled, both looked over at the bunk Carlos had disappeared back into, then looked back at each other, and as we met each others' eyes, we both started to laugh. Suddenly I understood the point of Carlos, and why every tour had to have a Carlos. He was so ridiculous, so annoying, and so irritatingly insufferable, that he provided a focus for everyone's discontent, so that we didn't all snap at each other.

\-----

We rolled into Portland ahead of schedule. I felt stiff from lying in one position all night, and desperately wanted to go for a run, but I didn't dare in a new city. So instead I put on my running shoes and found my way to a small patch of grass behind where the bus was parked. I stretched out first, but as I started to go through the initial exercises of tai chi, I turned around to see I was not alone.

Daniel stood behind me, studying me intently. I braced myself for the smart-ass comment as he cocked his head, but instead he looked quite earnest. "Are you doing tai chi? I did learn it once, but it's been years since I've done it."

"It comes back to you quite quickly if you start doing it again regularly." Distracted by his presence, I had to drop my limbs and start again.

"Do you mind if I do it with you? It's easier if I watch someone who knows what they're doing."

"Go ahead."

I tried not to stare at him as he took off his jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves - for a second I tried to imagine him in jeans and a T-shirt, but he probably stepped straight out of the shower into a suit every morning. He stared back at me as he watched and mirrored my movements. "I'm not perving on you, I promise. We've all been told off by Brandon for making you uncomfortable, but I'm just trying to remember which movement comes next."

"Brandon can be a bit overprotective of me," I sighed, though I was enjoying the feeling of control and freedom that came with the familiar movements.

"It means he cares about you," Daniel countered.

"Nope, other leg," I warned, trying delicately to change the subject. "Yup, that's it. And around..." We turned together in perfect synch, and carried on through the exercises.

"I'd forgotten how much strength this takes. I thought I was in pretty good shape, but... Ooh, yeah, I can feel that."

I laughed. "It is a bit of a workout, though when you see 80 year old Chinese dudes doing it in Flushing Meadows, you feel a bit of a wimp. I'd really like to wind it up with a good run, but I don't think that's gonna happen on this tour."

Daniel brightened noticeably. "Hang on, do you want a running buddy for the tour? We can force each other to go, even if we're hungover."

"You? Run?" I snorted. "I thought you guys were complete hedonists. Like, you survived on cigarette smoke and red wine."

"Well, Paul and Carlos, maybe. Me, I prefer to live a bit more healthily."

"You're on!" I finished up the last set of exercises then bowed to him, like we always did at my Dojo. "Do you want to run down to that church at the other end of the harbour? That looks like it might be just on a mile."

"Yeah, let me get changed first. I'll be back in two shakes." He grinned and disappeared back into the bus as I flopped back onto the grass. When he emerged, he was wearing sweats - though these were preppy, expensive looking J. Crew designer sweats with an actual logo, also perfectly ironed - and a tank top. I was about to burst out laughing and tease him mercilessly for his somewhat scrawny bare arms, but he bounced off before I had a chance, deceptively fast for his small size. "Come on, I'll race you!"

He beat me getting to the church, but I had more stamina, and beat him getting back. As I stretched out, pulling one leg at a time up behind me, he dodged between me and the bus door, laughing and pretending to dribble a ball. "Oh, don't even," I told him, feinting, faking him out before spinning around, and hopping into the bus behind his back before he'd realised what had happened.

"Check those moves!" he called out as he leapt onto the bus behind me. "Have you ever played basketball?"

"I was the tallest girl in the school from about eighth grade on. What do you think?"

His eyes widened as I stood at the kitchenette counter, slugging down a bottle of water. "We have got to find a court and play ball some time."

"I will beat you, Kessler, like I whooped your ass at running."

"I demand a rematch tomorrow, we'll see."

And thus started a tradition that would last us the rest of the tour, stopping for at least tai chi, even if we didn't get a proper run. I liked being competitive with him, it kept me sharp, but he had the grace never to be a sore loser - though on rare occasions he did turn out to be an irritating winner.

When we got back, Tony, the road manager, decided that we were going to go and eat brunch while we waited for the small theatre to open. 

"If you're going to Denny's, do you think _someone_ could manage bring me back a ham and cheese omelette?" asked Carlos from the haze of smoke in the rear lounge, but Tony shut that down immediately.

"No. Attendance on the first tour breakfast is not optional."

Carlos sighed deeply, as if being bought breakfast was the greatest imposition of his life, then stretched and pulled himself from the cocoon of the leather sofa. Surely, he had to be the laziest human being I'd ever met in my life.

As we walked up the main road of Portland in a loose gang, I realised how tiny the city was, and wondered why we were bothering playing there - but then again, maybe Interpol went down really big in the Preppie community. The staff at Denny's - the only place open at that time of the morning - were really quite indulgent and found a table for 12 people and brought us endless refills of free coffee. Paul flirted with the waitresses to get us extra food and free helpings of toast, but at least someone knew how to be polite and friendly to his companions. Sitting between my bandmates in the curve of the end booth, as Brandon read out the ingredients to the barbecue sauce to decide if it was safe to put on my mushroom burger, I felt suddenly very happy, like this was just a road trip with my mates that was never going to end.

Full of food, we walked back to the bus, and divided into parties of who was going to explore the city, and who was going back to their bunk to sleep off their brunch. I was definitely in the explore the city group and wandered happily round the backstreets with Brandon and Sam, looking for interesting things to photograph. Sam was a bit older than the rest of his band, and seemed a lot more interested in finding second hand bookshops and weird old local museums than in rock'n'roll oblivion, a lifestyle that suited me just fine. He had an old-fashioned SLR camera that looked like it actually took film, which he used to snap interesting views from odd angles, and he kept trying to explain about light meters to a fascinated Brandon. I thought about what Alley had said, about all of Interpol being in love with Brandon, and tried not to laugh at the nascent bromance developing between the pair as they kept complimenting each other with an odd, stilted courtesy that passed for Southern affection.

After about an hour, we found another more old fashioned coffeeshop with proper old fashioned Formica tables and gleaming chrome fixtures, and sat there for another hour or so, drinking yet more coffee and picking at slices of apple pie. After years of believing that tours were nonstop sex, drugs and rock'n'roll action, it was already hard for me to believe how much of it was comprised of just waiting around doing absolutely nothing but killing time. But Brandon and Sam were absorbed in their own world, having a very involved and complicated discussion about analogue recording gear and the serendipity of old fashioned recording processes. Flipping my sunglasses down onto my face, I watched Brandon, even as Sam watched him with adoring eyes. Brandon wasn't even holding forth, the way another man might have set himself up as an expert, it was just that his enthusiasm and quiet confidence were so infectious. He had a subtle way of being clever, that made you feel that you were clever for talking with him. I just hoped that I wasn't gazing at him quite as soppily as Sam was, as the two of them split a second piece of pie, cherry this time. They were so busy staring at one another that any second now their forks were going to collide in the last bite of the pie, like a scene from Lady and the Tramp. Maybe that was it - he was never going to be my boyfriend, because he was too busy being Interpol's boyfriend. And yet I couldn't even begin to explain to them why I was laughing so hard, as I tried to stifle my giggles.

"Hang on, knock it off, my phone's just bleeped." Brandon pulled out his iPhone, squinted at it, then started to chortle himself.

"What is it? What's so funny this time?" I demanded.

"Not telling you if you won't tell me what you're laughing at." This with a smug older brother smirk.

"Give it here!" I insisted. Sam actually started to laugh at us himself, as Brandon and I squabbled over the phone for a bit, before he let me take it from him.

"It's just my brother. I asked him to look in on the Fire Station while I was gone and he'd been sending me Instagrams of what he's been getting up to," Brandon explained to Sam, as I looked at Benjamin's next photo. It seemed like he had wired together every processing unit in the Fire Station, and the mixing desk into some kind of giant nest, and was pretending to stick the last two jacks into his head, as if he could wire himself into the circuits.

"Ha ha, that's adorable." It actually gave me a funny warm feeling in my chest, to see how much better Brandon and Ben were getting along. "We should send him a photo back."

"Send him a photo of the best cherry pie in Portland, Maine, so he knows what he's missing," Sam suggested, even as Brandon had to fend off another fork attack.

"You should send him a picture of you and Sam mooning over the last piece of cherry pie like The Lady And The Tramp." It was out of my mouth before I'd even realised I'd said it aloud, but instead of being offended, Sam burst out laughing, though Brandon blushed slightly bashfully.

"Aw, let's do it." Sam and Brandon posed with the pie, Brandon smiling with adorably coy surprise while Sam leered a bit wolfishly, as I snapped an Instagram, then Brandon sent it back to his brother online. We were still giggling as we walked back through Portland.

Back to the venue, and the road crew had actually loaded in without us. Interpol's equipment was already half set-up on the stage, with ours deposited in a tidy pile to the side. I went to check the state of the dressing room, and look for Moira, and found both at the end of long, rather dusty corridor. There was only one dressing room, so we had to share it, which made me rather nervous, knocking tentatively on the door in a way that I never would have bothered had it just been Josh and Brandon.

Daniel opened the door with that customary smirk, which widened into a grin when he saw me. "Daria... Jane Lane's here."

I was about to protest this, when Moira looked up from her iPad. In her reading glasses, with her dirty hair plastered against her forehead, wearing someone else's oversized green army jacket, I could actually see the resemblance and started to giggle. "Today on Sick, Sad World, we see the depths to which rock stars are reduced out of sheer boredom."

"Speaking of which, what have you done with Trent?"

"Wait, who's supposed to be Trent?"

"You know, tall, dark-haired, loves metal, plays bass, unbelievably lazy and sluggish..."

"Aw, come on, that's not fair."

"Sounds about right to me," Brandon grinned, coming up behind me.

"I don't think I like the idea of you as my brother."

"That's me, though," he sighed. "Big brother to the world."

Another afternoon and another Interpol soundcheck, which I watched from the wings with Moira. Daniel was definitely showing off for me now, walking towards to the side of the stage and strumming Lloyd Cole riffs at me, Rattlesnakes followed by Four Flights Up. I just laughed and gave him the finger. And then an hour later, at our own soundcheck, as I saw him walking out across the floor to join his band on the way to dinner, I broke into This Charming Man, before segueing it perfectly into the riff from the verse from one of his own songs, Say Hello To The Angels, a near sound-alike. He whirled around, mock outrage written all over his face before he burst back into his habitual grin, returning a finger of his own. It became a game over the next few nights, shooting musical riffs at one another in a guitar-based version of Name That Tune, picking apart one another's influences. Echo and the Bunnymen, The Chameleons, Joy Division, The Teardrop Explodes, we played them back and forth to one another.

And Brandon stood near me, watching us watching each other, and he huffed, and sometimes he sighed deeply and looked at me with wounded eyes, but at least he'd learned not to comment.

Another gig, less nerve-wracking and less rough around the edges, as playing together day after day was bringing us sharper into focus. I dragged Brandon out from backstage and made him watch Interpol's gig with me that night, standing by him and leaning on his shoulder as often as I dared. There was no party after the gig that night, it was straight back on the bus as soon as Paul and Carlos were done signing autographs and off to the next city, though I noticed, once again, another same set of girls had somehow managed to come on the bus with us, catching a ride back down to some big college town in Western Massachusetts. I had just about got to the stage where I knew their names, when they were exchanged for another set of girls, just as pretty, just as young and just as naive.

It made the atmosphere on the bus weird for me, though I hated to admit it. What happened on the road stayed on the road, I knew that was the first rule of touring. And if everyone was a consenting adult, what did it matter, what happened when the back lounge got too smoky to think straight? Except, well, these lads were my friends. I didn't like thinking of them as the kind of people who treated young girls like that. Or even just watched, and laughed, titillated when someone got one of the too young girls just too slightly tipsy enough to not say no to some oral sex that was just a bit too public for an old prude like me.

At that point, I didn't care who was judging me for it, I got up and I moved through into the front lounge. But the front lounge wasn't much better - Josh and Paul dominated the Playstation, endlessly battling each other on videogames. If Paul lost to Josh (which he usually did, as Josh was as good at videogames as he was at pool - it was the eye-hand co-ordination. All drummers seemed to be fantastic at videogames. Chris had been amazing at them, which was probably part of why I disliked them) and someone else stepped up for the challenge, Paul would sulk, though he wouldn't leave the front lounge. Moira had become pretty much his constant companion, and would sit and butter him up, even while he was sitting with one eye on the games console, waiting for another chance to leap back into the game. I tried not to look at what was going on between those two - I didn't want to look, just didn't want to know, pretended not to see when he'd rest his hand on her knee and then casually slip it between her thighs.

So I picked up my book, and walked back down the corridor. I looked at my bunk, but I was afraid if I lay down, I'd just go to sleep, and I didn't want to fuck up my sleep pattern that badly to start sleeping in the middle of the day. I looked down the stairs, then I flicked an eye back towards the rear lounge to make sure that I really didn't want to go back in there, then moved towards the stairs.

Too late. I'd been spotted. An irritating voice floated up out of the lounge. "Oh, Charley, you're going downstairs. While you're down there, do you mind fetching me another beer." 

I couldn't even work out what it was that annoyed me most about the command - the fact that it was a command, and not even a request. Or that little _do you mind_ tacked on as if he had actually worked out that other people did have minds of their own, but that his whims overruled them. No, most of all, it was the lack of a single, simple _please_. "What's the magic word, Carlos," I muttered, giving him the finger as I padded down the stairs. I had actually been shocked the first time I had seen Daniel do that to him, but after a week of being cooped up on a tourbus with them, I seemed to be slowly turning into Daniel.

"Well, I don't understand why you're being so unreasonable about this, Charlotte," Carlos shot back, all aggrieved self-importance. "You are going downstairs, after all. I don't understand why it's such an _imposition_ for you to pick up a single extra beverage while you're down there..."

God, his voice carried. I could even hear him from the kitchenette. And for a second, I looked at the fridge, and some deeply ingrained strain of Midwestern politeness made me actually feel guilty and even consider taking him a beer. But no, several years of living with Chris had trained me out of ever letting anyone take advantage of that impulse again.

I padded back through to the back, to where it was quiet at least, though the throb of the engine was louder. And I walked to those two sets of seats against the far wall, right away from everyone else, only to discover, as I'd already guessed, that at least one of them was occupied. I'd meant to take the other pair of seats, opposite Brandon, but when he saw me coming, he pushed his coat and bag off the seat next to him to clear a space for me. I smiled and sat, but held out my book, as a signal that I didn't really want to talk. He nodded and shifted and showed me the cover of his own book, an impenetrable Stanislaw Lem novel. Then he took one of the little white earbuds out of his ears, and I thought he was going to try to talk to me, but instead, he wiped it on his shirt, and handed it to me like an offering. I took it and put it in my ear. Oh, the first Black Sabbath album! Good choice. I smiled at him and nodded, then I put my nose into my book, and he put his nose into his book, kind of leaned up against one another, and read until we were falling asleep.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the Interpol tour swings through Canada, Charley is trying to figure out if her Tour Bromance with Daniel might be showing signs of turning into a Tour Romance. But boys are confusing, and who can tell, and to be honest Charley isn't sure herself what she wants (because: Brandon.) Later that night, Paul gets introduced to a supermodel, sending Moira into a panic.
> 
> Warning: contains scenes of Daniel Kessler *dancing* to Prince jams. Those of delicate constitution may wish to prepare themselves for the spectacle.

Burlington. Or was it Montreal next? I was starting to lose track of the days, lose track of where we were. No, it was definitely Burlington because the signs were all in English when Daniel and I went for our run, and the money was all still green. Daniel played Killing Joke at soundcheck, so I teased him right back with an early song by The Cult. I liked the gigs in smaller cities, they were far more laid back and relaxed for us - though oddly, the audiences often got far more excited and energetic than they ever did in the big cities. Then again, I supposed Boston got a band as big as Interpol every night of the week, while Burlington, Vermont got one maybe twice a year.

Quebec was a trip, a really strange gig, full of really intense, really arty girls who stared and posed, posed and stared. They turned up backstage, too, with their giant eyes and their gamine haircuts, and I was actually so intimidated by their flawless French and accented English that I hoped to god none of them turned up on the tourbus. Even Brandon found himself buttonholed by one of them, a beautiful girl who said she was a performance artist, tall and slim with long dark hair and eyes like an anime character. He blushed and smiled, and even flirted a bit, which made some awful churning sensation of jealousy consume my stomach, so intense it was almost like a physical pain. But I forced my eyes away, and shrugged like I didn't care, even though I was burning up inside, and made myself go back to the bus so I wouldn't have to watch them standing together, him watching her as she watched the band. Like a woman possessed, I paced up and down the corridor of the bus, wondering what on earth I would do if he actually brought her back with him. I hated sleeping on top of his bunk as it was - if he fucked some groupie underneath me, I would never be able to bear it. I skipped the aftershow party, off at some performance space / loft, and sulked in my own bed.

Just after midnight, I was woken by someone clattering onto the bus. I moved my head slightly, and peeked through the crack between my bunkbed and the curtain, and saw that it was Brandon. Alone. Relief surge through my body. But why? He wasn't my boyfriend. He was perfectly entitled to do what the fuck he liked. Even if it broke my heart.

I thought he was just going to roll into bed, so I didn't bother pulling my curtain back to say hello. But instead he stood there for a minute, in the aisle, shoulders slouched, hands in his pockets, staring out from underneath the curtain of his hair... at the drawn curtain of my bed. I should have just pulled back the curtain, I don't even know what stopped me, but I felt paralysed. Tentatively, he reached out, as if to twitch back the curtains, or knock on the wood panelling, and I found myself trying to make some deal with god... if he just makes a sign, of any kind, that means he still loves me. That means he hasn't forgotten. That means we still have a chance. But then he stopped, withdrew his hand, shrugged and blew his hair out of his face before collapsing down into the bottom bunk.

\-----

Daniel was entirely too chirpy the next morning, pulling back his curtain with a grin and enquiring "Bon jour, mademoiselle. Comme ca va?" when he saw me.

"Tire-toi," I shot back. Why was it the only thing I remembered from two years of high school French was the insults?

"Don't be like that," he said, locating trousers and pulling them on over his boxer shorts. "Come on, let's skip our run and just go to breakfast. I know a wonderful little bistro..."

"I don't have a hope in hell of finding vegan food in Montreal," I sighed. "I don't speak a word, I'll probably end up with rats kidneys on toast."

"Would I lead you astray?" Daniel protested, throwing his arms wide, so I pulled on my jeans and followed him outside. Brandon stared at us as we walked by, the look of sourness on his face positively glowering. "What has got into you, Curtis? You have a face like a bulldog licking piss of a lemon. You need to lighten up, relax, enjoy life more."

"I think there's rather more to enjoying life than getting a blow-job off a Quebecois performance artist in the bathroom of an aftershow, myself, but to each their own," Brandon muttered so quietly I almost didn't hear him.

For a second, my heart skipped a beat, the bottom dropping out of my stomach as I wondered if the sex I feared so much had already happened, back at the aftershow party, that Brandon had gone through with it at Daniel's egging. But from their body language, from how Brandon scowled and hunched over as Daniel actually threw his shoulders back and puffed his chest out like a triumphant pigeon, sticking his thumbs into his belt, his hips cocked in a way that seemed to frame his crotch, smirking that babyfaced smile with such insouciance that I realised... it was Daniel who had received the blow-job.

I was actually shocked, though I couldn't really say why. He seemed so demure, so unassuming, he didn't really seem capable of it. I would have expected that kind of behaviour off Carlos - or even off Paul, though oddly, Paul seemed quite well-behaved on this tour, as perhaps the watchful eye of Moira and Rolling Stone was having some kind of cold shower effect on his libido. But Daniel? I was disappointed. I hadn't thought he would be one of those kind of boys that thought that blow-jobs off groupies while on tour somehow didn't _count_.

Christ! When did I become such a moralist? This was not like me. But as I followed Daniel into the small vegetarian cafe, I started to wonder. Was this not actually moral outrage, but jealousy? No. It didn't burn enough to be jealousy. As we sat down, and he ordered coffee and a vegan breakfast for me in flawless French, I looked at him, and thought that whatever feeling I was having about his extracurricular activities was nothing like the searing feeling of... betrayal I'd thought about Brandon last night. Or was I actually envious, rather than jealous, annoyed that someone was getting laid when I clearly was not?

I smirked back at him over the top of my coffeecup. "So. Quebecois performance artist, huh. Was it indeed oral art?"

"Oh, don't you start on me, now, Charlotta." A smirk in return, but no denial, I noted.

"What happens on tour stays on tour," I shrugged.

"Indeed." He paused as he sipped his coffee. "Well, while we're gossiping about our personal lives, I'm curious. So why aren't you shagging our sullen friend, Brandon? He's not usually like this. He's usually really even-keeled. I'm convinced his current cantankerousness is entirely down to sexual frustration. You two spend so much time closeted up together, I'm almost convinced that must be the source."

It took every ounce of self control I possessed not to spit my coffee out. "For your information, actually I have 'shagged' Brandon. He's the one who didn't want a relationship with me."

"Really?" For a moment, he looked absolutely flummoxed. Well, welcome to the club. "Because, you know, you two really act like... well, anyone who saw you two together would think you're his girlfriend."

"I'm not his girlfriend!" I snapped, rather more forcefully than I'd intended, but I was sick of these conversations, with Daniel, with Ben, with Alley - with everyone. "Why do people keep insinuating that I am? If I were Brandon's girlfriend, I think I would _know_!"

But then he brightened. "Well. That changes things with the sullen, sexually frustrated musicians of this tour, doesn't it."

"You're hardly sexually frustrated if you're having blow jobs off performance artists," I teased.

His eyes were as bright as a chipmunk's as he smirked up at me. "What makes you think I meant me? Projecting much, Charley?"

And what was that supposed to mean? I narrowed my eyes at him, but abruptly our breakfasts arrived. I ate in silence as he chirped on gaily about boyhood summers in Paris. Christ, the lifestyles of the wealthy and fabulous. I'd spent my childhood summers at a church organised summer camp, learning archery and how to flip boys my age into the lake, until I'd been old enough to work a summer job. But now he was telling me about how romantic it was, strolling along the Left Bank in the early summer evenings. Was he... was that flirtation, or was he just practising on me, honing his chat-up technique for Quebecois performance artists? These rock boys, they were too confusing. I wished in a way that he'd just fucking come out and ask me, so I could either accept or put him off. But he never gave me the chance - or maybe that was the point. Brandon had been the same way, once upon a time - too dumb to realise that if he had ever just asked, my answer would have been "yes! yes! yes!" and now it was too late. What would the answer be if Daniel asked, though? Actually, on second thought, it was probably good that he hadn't broached the question, so I didn't have to think about it.

We finished our breakfast to descriptions of his favourite paintings in the Musee D'Orsay, and then he walked me back to the bus. As I climbed aboard, he put his hand of the small of my back, either out of polite concern, or as a proprietary gesture, I couldn't tell. But oh, how Brandon scowled at that, and went stalking off to his lair at the back of the bus. Blow it out your ass, I thought to myself. How do you think I felt when you were engrossed in that girl last night? But I said nothing, and climbed the stairs to the front lounge, to join Josh, Paul and Moira dogfighting their way through some space opera of a game.

Toronto. Bright Lights, Big City. We were staying over an extra day, as Interpol were doing an appearance on MuchMusic the next afternoon. That meant we actually got a hotel. Well, Interpol got a hotel, a beautiful four-star international hotel in the centre of town. We got a cheaper motel a mile out of town. Still, a bed that didn't move, a crashpad without engine noise and a guaranteed warm shower in the morning - couldn't argue with that, even as we got to our room and realised that there were only two proper beds. The third bed was a children's cot that had been wheeled into the room for the night.

Josh insisted we do things properly, and draw lots for the cot. "Come on, it's only fair. I've written an X on the back of one of these. Take one."

Brandon drew first and turned over the slip of paper to find it was clear. I took one and of course, there was the damn X. Oh well, as I was the new girl, I supposed it was a question of seniority anyway. But as Josh chucked his rucksack onto the bed nearest the door, Brandon walked to the other bed, then seemed to change his mind and came back to the cot.

"I'll take the cot, it's fine. You take the bed," he offered.

"You know, you don't have to be such a Southern Gentleman all the time," I said somewhat defensively. "I'll be fine in the cot."

"Well, there are two of you," Brandon shrugged. "While I'll be sleeping on my own."

I whirled on him, outraged. What the hell was that supposed to mean? Was he trying to insinuate something about Daniel? But his face was guileless, unreadable. OK, fine. Be that way. I had been about to insist that Brandon take the bed, that he had won it fair and square, but just for that, I was going to sleep in the comfort of the double bed, all by myself, and he could suffer in the lumpy cot.

We all showered and changed - though Josh managed to use all of the free hotel shampoo - then got a taxi back to the venue. Interpol were in high spirits, excited and buzzing about being back in a decent sized city again. It was a big venue, even bigger than Boston, with a lovely sound system. And a guest list as long as my arm, and a proper full-on afterparty down on Queen Street, with a DJ and a dancefloor and everything that I was told I would be completely stupid to miss.

Or at least so said Moira, getting really excited about various Canadian pop stars I'd never heard of. Brandon saw us chatting and came over, smiling in a way that I found slightly worrying. "The hotel's nice," he told her with a tight smile. "I let you two have the big bed." And then he scurried off without waiting for a reply.

My face burned with shame. So he hadn't meant Daniel at all. He'd remembered that Moira and I had been sharing a berth for the first part of the tour, and kindly thought that we might need more space. Except, well... although Moira kept her stuff in my bunk, and reclined there sometimes during the day when she wanted a quiet place to write, I could count on the fingers of one thumb the nights she'd actually spent sleeping there. I had assumed that she had been bedding down in the front lounge after Josh and Paul went to sleep but I hadn't thought to ask. "Where are you sleeping tonight, anyway?" I blurted out. "I mean, you're welcome to come back to our motel, if you like, but..."

She looked at me as if I'd suggested she camp out in a tent on the side of the road. "Oh, I'm sure that I can find a quiet corner in Interpol's suite," she announced blithely, with a cheerful handwave.

I said nothing, I just made my way up to the stage and started preparing to set up my gear. Refusing to be ignored, Daniel walked over to the side of the stage and played a riff at me, until I turned around and shrugged. If I was getting so defensive around Brandon about him, I should probably cool it with him. Besides. Quebecois performance artists. I didn't know why that bothered me, but it did. If he wanted to mess around casually with someone on tour, well... _it should be me_. Wait. Where the hell had that thought come from? But I could see from his expression, he was still expecting an answer. "Nope, sorry, I don't know that one."

"Oh my god, finally! I've picked something too obscure for even you!" he crowed, running through the chords a few more times before explaining. "Sloan - Underwhelmed. I thought since we were in Canada we should play some Canadian music." 

I just shook my head, then started to move my amp over as he handed his guitar to a roadie then got out of my way. Why was he still hanging around, didn't they have an interview to do over a nice dinner at a fancy restaurant? Oh, yeah. I slung my guitar over my shoulder, turned back to him, then started to pick out the riff of Safety Dance by Men Without Hats.

He burst out laughing, clapped his hands together, then ran off to join his bandmates, singing "S... A... F... E... T... Y..." as they disappeared into the distance.

We actually had fans in Toronto. That was a bit of a surprise, though definitely a pleasant one. The rail was crowded with Interpol fans, two or three deep already, but the floor had actually properly filled up, with people who shouted loudly when we came on, and called for songs by name. Brandon looked up, shocked, and grinned, his silver tooth glinting as he looked into the spotlights, trying to see faces.

"What Used To Be French!" someone shouted, and Brandon's mouth split open with pleasure.

"Yeah, maybe." He picked up his bass and started to finger the chords. "Charley, do you know how this one goes?"

"Of course." It was one of the easier songs, mostly just guitar atmospherics and single note drones. Josh kicked in on the drums, and Brandon started to strum the hypnotic throb of the bassline, and people in the crowd actually roared their approval. Oh my god, there were actual fans here, and they probably knew our songs better than I did! Still, I didn't do too badly, and then we swept into more familiar territory, accompanied by shrieks of excitement. It was almost like being the headliner. I could almost get used to this kind of adoration, hearing the audience chanting along with our lyrics. And on that bit on First Wave Intact, where the music cut out, the audience shouting ' _The rest is theft_ ' was actually louder than Brandon, surprising and delighting all three of us.

We played a little longer than usual, squeezing in an extra song or two. Interpol wouldn't mind - in fact I could see Paul and Sam headbanging along in the wings and giving us the thumbs up - but the road manager would give us hell for going off schedule. Well, fuck him. I felt the last song building to its conclusion, as I whipped more and more frenetic clouds of feedback from my amp. And we went offstage on a total high, surprised by the waves of love coming off the audience. That had been a great gig. That had been one of those gigs where we were really on top, and the audience had followed right along, eating out of the palms of our hands, and together, between their excitement and our response, we'd played better and harder than we ever had before. That was one of those nights that I wanted to bottle, and just keep the feeling, so whenever I was feeling discouraged, or anyone asked me, why the hell do you spend so much time in sweaty rehearsal studios working your fingers to the bone over this... I could just take this gig out, take the feeling that I got, coming offstage, and just show it to them. There. That's why. Because of this.

And then Interpol came out, and picked up the energy levels, and burst through the roof with them. Standing, watching from a balcony with Josh and Moira, it suddenly clicked for me, what a phenomenal live band they were. Watching them dominate the stage, Carlos as laconic and effortlessly lazy as Daniel was energetic, dancing about like a dervish, it suddenly made sense what people saw in them, and I found myself entranced. And then Brandon arrived with a magnum of champagne he said was a gift from an admirer and the three of us - and Moira - toasted each other and set about getting completely smashed, as we didn't have to go anywhere the next morning. Now that was a photo to send to his brother - Josh and I holding an upended (now empty) magnum of champagne over Brandon's head.

After the show, we had a few more rounds in the dressing rooms, then we found ourselves in a taxi over to the club where the aftershow was. I thought Canadian bars closed quite early, compared to New York, but given this was a private party, it seemed we could go all night. It was a strange venue, all shiny chrome and mirrors, and it was filled with Canadian hipsters - who were oddly just like New York hipsters, but much, much taller, like a Nordic forest of hairdoes and moustaches. I giggled as we were lead through into another, private room just for the special elect - that meant us with gold wristbands - and found it stuffed to the rafters with insanely beautiful women. What, was this every model in Canada rammed into one room? The Interpol boys certainly looked excited about it, but this was hardly my idea of a good time. So instead I pushed my way to the bar and asked how much another bottle of champagne would be. Oh. Way too expensive. But the gold wristband meant that I got free well drinks all night? Ah. The night had just got a hell of a lot better. I ordered a double vodka tonic and staggered my way to the safety of a booth.

I looked about, trying to spot my friends, but everyone was talking to models. Well, not Josh, he was talking to an actress I recognised from a couple of indie films, but she was certainly pretty enough to be a model. Brandon had been buttonholed by two fans who had somehow worked their way into the aftershow, but he actually looked pleased, his face animated, where he had only looked frightened when talking to the models. Then again, it was probably good for him to have his ego stroked a little by adoring fans. But my ego, unfortunately, was on the slide. Looking around this palace of beautiful women, I felt fat, and homely, and even short - and at five foot nine in my stocking feet, I never felt short. Why were there no beautiful men to butter me up and make me feel fabulous?

As I raised my glass to my lips to sip my drink, Carlos appeared at my elbow, sitting down at my table, uninvited. Ugh, oh god, no, Universe, that was not what I'd had in mind. "Where did you get that?" he demanded, pointing at the drink.

"There's an open bar if you kept your gold wristband. Free drinks - on the house."

But instead of looking pleased at the idea that we were all being given free drinks, Carlos' face twisted in irritation, his nose wrinkling. "And you didn't even _think_ to get anyone else one while you were there?"

I looked at my drink, then looked at Carlos, then looked back at my drink. Clearly, by 'anyone,' he meant 'Carlos.' "Nope. Can't say the thought crossed my mind."

As Carlos got up from my table with a sigh of indignation, Daniel appeared, trotting towards us carrying a gin and tonic. Yes, Universe, that was far more like what I had in mind. I smiled and waved, gesturing him over to the newly vacated seat beside me.

But Carlos reached him first, and pointed to the gin and tonic in his hand. "Et tu, Daniel?" Daniel just looked perplexed and shrugged lightly, smiling his disarming grin, which only seemed to infuriate Carlos more, winding him up into a self-righteous rage of indignation. "Do _none_ of my touring companions _ever_ think of anyone one else except themselves?" And with that, he turned and stomped off, leaving Daniel practically pissing himself with laughter as he made his way over to me.

"Charley!" he shouted in my ear, grabbing my hand and pulling me physically out of the sofa. "What are you doing sitting down? There's a whole dancefloor out there, and they are playing your song!"

Taking me by the hand, he dragged me across the room and down a short passage to something that looked like... yes it was, it was a private dancefloor, though already a couple of the modelly girls were bopping daintily by the edges of it. Daniel wasted no time with preliminaries, he dragged me into the centre of the floor, then started to prance around me in circles, singing along. "S... A... F..." Oh god, it was Men Without Hats. Tossing caution to the wind, I downed the rest of my vodka and started to spin, following Daniel.

He was an amazing dancer, there was no question about it. His hips were quicksilver, his legs seemed made out of rubber, springing about the grace of a gazelle. And it wasn't just that he was a good dancer, he was the kind of dancer that made his partner look good, grabbing me about the waist, spinning me, twirling me like a ballerina. Every time I turned, he was there, flicking his hips at me. I flicked back, I tossed my hair at him, I danced towards him, teasing, then darted away, making him come after me. He slid across the floor towards me effortlessly, then took me by the hands and pulled me back, pushing me towards him then pulling apart, together, apart, together, apart, hips almost touching as we slid past one another.

The song ended and I tried to make my way off the dancer floor, but he laughed and called out after me, grabbing my hand and trying to pull me back. "Where do you think you're going?" he laughed into my ear as he swayed against me.

"I can't dance to this hipster shit," I sneered, rolling my eyes.

"What will you dance to?"

"If they would just play something with a groove... funk.. R&B... I dunno, just not this whiney indie crap."

He grinned at me, his eyes wrinkling. "What are you trying to say about whiney indie, then? Are you trying to say you can't dance to my band?"

"Noooo..." I hedged. "But, you know. I want dance music to make me feel sexy, so I want to move. When I listen to indie rock, it's all sensitive dudes telling me how they feel. But when I listen to R&B, it's all dudes telling me how they're going to make _me_ feel. That's way sexier."

Putting his hand to his heart, Daniel made a little moue with his lips. "You wound me, Charlotte, you truly wound me."

"Look, I'll dance with you if you get them to play something that I can actually dance to."

Daniel rolled his eyes back at me, then slid off to find the DJ booth as I tramped over to the bar to claim another free drink. It was getting quite warm, especially as I'd been dancing, so I shrugged off the jacket I was still wearing and loosened my collar. I must have looked ridiculous dancing with Daniel. And yet there he was, back again, sliding up beside me and ordering an imported beer. "One all Prince set coming straight up. Now get on the dance floor, bitch."

"Who are you calling bitch?" I snorted, tossing back my drink and demanding another. But then the tense opening beats of D.M.S.R. started to ring out across the club and my eyes went wide. "Wait, you got them to play early Prince?"

His eyes actually twinkled. "What else?"

I beat him back to the dance floor, feeling the vodka hitting my bloodstream as I strutted my stuff. With better music on the loudspeakers, the dance floor was starting to fill up, but people still kept a slightly respectful distance from Daniel and I as he swooped and pirouetted around me, incorporating stylised Prince dance movements into his usual aggressive mod dance. D.M.S.R. gave way to Darling Nikki, and the two of us started to ramp up our suggestive dance moves. Daniel was trying to act out the song, in a way that was both comical and oddly erotic. He actually had the skinny hips to do Prince moves, and had clearly studied them, maybe in front of a bathroom mirror. I turned my back on him to stop from laughing too much, and found him grinding up against my ass. No, that was not on. I turned back to face him, feeling the room heating up as we did a bump and grind. Darling Nikki gave way to Controversy and another layer of my clothes came off, stripping my dress shirt off until I was dancing in my vest. Daniel hadn't even loosened his tie, the man seemed to be impervious to heat, though I did notice a bead or two of perspiration running just gently down his sideburns.

No, enough. I should not be looking at Daniel like that, it was just the heat and the booze and the intensely sexy music. He was coming up behind me again, resting his sharp little chin on my shoulder as he put his arms around my waist, moving his hips back and forth gently across my ass like an invitation. Time slowed down, until there was nothing in the room but us, and Prince's drum machine, forcing our bodies ever closer and closer. I reached up, ostensibly just moving my ams to the beat, but my hand touched the side of his face, and brushed against his hair. I'd expected it to be soft and thick, like Brandon's, but it was stiff with styling product.

And suddenly something glowing filled my view. I raised my head, focused my eyes. Moira, and her fucking iPad, taking a photo of us. Oh no, that was not on. In an instant, I'd peeled myself off Daniel and was chasing after her, even as she was shrieking with laughter.

"Give me that!" I demanded.

"No way."

"Delete that picture, Moira, or I swear I'm gonna..."

"No, too late! I've posted it to Instagram! But it is a cute picture of you. You never look that sexy, you never look that at ease in your own body." She held up the iPad, just out of my reach, showing me the picture. I looked... cute. Feminine. The vest showed off the few rudimentary curves of my chest, and my body, pressed up against Daniel's, looked lithe instead of awkward for a change.

"Delete it! Right now! Promise!"

"Don't worry, I posted it to my private account, not the magazine's, no one is going to see it but our friends. But be careful. I am not the only person in here with a camera tonight. The place is crawling with press," she warned.

"What, for us? Why? I can't believe that Interpol are that big a deal, even in Canada." Locating my jacket again, I pulled it on over my shoulders.

"Well." Moira frowned, and I followed her line of sight to the back of the club, to a not-very-secluded velvet booth where Paul was sitting, engrossed in intimate conversation with a ridiculously beautiful - and oddly familiar - woman. "There might be someone here tonight who is slightly more famous than Interpol."

"Who is that woman? She looks really familiar."

"Come on, Charley, even you should know her - I know you're a tomboy and all, but if you ever, even once, picked up a fashion magazine between about 1985 and now, you would recognise that supermodel."

I smiled and nodded, trying to cover my ignorance. It wasn't Naomi Campbell, or Kate Moss, or Claudia Schiffer or... nope, that was the sum total of my internal catalogue of supermodels. But it was clearly someone like that, on that kind of level of fame, both from the way that Moira was acting - half wounded pride that Paul was talking to someone that wasn't her, and half burning curiosity - and from the way that all the people in the club seemed to be turning towards her, like iron filings towards a magnet. "But this is big news for you, right? This is the kind of gossip you can really sell to Rolling Stone, huh?"

"Well, I didn't exactly think about it like that." Moira was actually staring daggers at the supermodel now, annoyed that someone else was dominating Paul's attention in the way that she had for the previous week of the tour.

"I thought you were an expert in thinking about things like that," I teased, and turned back to the dance floor, but Prince had given way to some shitty Vampire Weekend track, and Daniel was now dancing with another girl. And this girl clearly didn't pull away when he ground up against her ass, snaking her arms around his neck and holding on like she was staking territory. Daniel looked simultaneously completely terrified yet also intrigued, like a high school nerd who still couldn't quite believe the luck he had with women now that he was a rock star. "Well. Looks like you and me both have been thrown over now. Let's go and find Brandon - unless he's also tonsil-deep in a supermodel."

But no. Good old Brandon was sitting at the back of a booth, his legs drawn up under him, talking to a guy in little wire-rimmed granny glasses who turned out to be the bassist for Daniel's Canadian alt-rock band of choice. Brandon smiled when he saw me, and moved his legs down to make room for me, so I could squeeze in next to him. I told Sloan dude about Daniel's and my soundcheck game, and he seemed pleased, but then they went back to talking about Kiss records from the 70s. 

"You are looking for someone - but it is not Kiss," I quoted, and we all started to giggle. Brandon shifted in his seat as he laughed, and carelessly, unthinkingly draped his arm around the back of my seat. Oh, the sweetness of that gesture, how I could almost pretend he had put his arm around me, as we started talking about old pop-metal and Saturday morning kids cartoons and made for TV movies distantly remembered from childhood. It was funny how that single gesture, his fingers playing distractedly with the stitching on the shoulder of my suit, thrilled me more than all of Daniel's deliberately provocative dance moves put together.

And yet, still, Moira fumed. She kept throwing really obvious glances around the corner, as if trying to see in the booth next to ours, to see if Paul and the supermodel were still there. I ignored her, and started talking about ice hockey with the Canadian alt-rocker, getting more and more animated as we talked about our favourite players. It was one of the few lasting things I'd picked up off living with Chris. I had never had much interest in team sports - I liked the thrill and the excitement of one on one battle with a single opponent that I'd learned in martial arts - but Chris had been really into Ice Hockey, and had watched every game during the season, until I'd learned to appreciate it. I loved the disparity between the gracefulness of the movements, effortlessly gliding around on the ice, and the violence of the conflict, like ballerinas turned to beserkers. So Canuck alt-rocker and I took turns explaining to poor, hot-weather Texan boy Brandon about why the game was so special, Brandon looking like he was laughing at me out of the corner of his eye the whole time.

Until Moira suddenly gasped, audibly, and stood up. I followed her gaze, peering round into the booth next to ours, but it was empty. Paul and the supermodel were gone. "How?" she hissed, as I stood up to join her side. "I took my eye off them for thirty seconds, maybe a minute. How did they just slip out, in that time? It's not fair!"

"Oh come on, you can live without Paul for one night. She's a supermodel, she'll be flying off to Rio for a photo shoot tomorrow."

Moira's lower lip started to quiver. "But where will I sleep tonight, then?"

"Don't worry, you're in with us." I was too drunk and too busy being glad that Brandon had played the Southern Gentleman and let us have the bed, that I didn't notice the deeper meaning of what she'd just said.

I don't even know what time we headed back to the motel, I was so plastered, thanks to the never-ending free drinks. But the four of us - TSM plus Moira - piled into a taxi and made our way back to our cheap motel. It was so cold in our room that my teeth were chattering, and Moira and I clung to one another under the blankets, relieved to have another warm body in the bed. Brandon made some comment about how adorable we looked, and found another blanket to tuck over us, but I was too far gone to thump him when he joked that he was going to take a picture of us curled up in bed together, to send to his brother.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> During a day off in Toronto, Brandon and Charley go record shopping and tease each other about their pop star crushes, all in innocent fun... until Brandon brings up what may or may not be happening between Charley and a certain member of Interpol.

The heating had come back on the next morning, a little too warm for me, but it helped us to roll through the shower more quickly - and with four people sharing one bathroom, that really helped. But we managed to get checked out of the motel in time, and found a taxi back to the centre of town, locating the tour bus parked out behind Interpol's swish hotel.

We found the 'Pol boys in the hotel's dining room, lounging over the remains of a huge breakfast, which Brandon and Josh quickly hoovered up, though Daniel brought back another carafe of free coffee and some fresh fruit for Moira and I. Paul had not turned up for breakfast, and from the knowing looks being exchanged, I gathered they were not expecting him to turn up until the interview that afternoon. Moira somehow inveigled an invitation to the MuchMusic performance when the 'Pols shuffled off, but Josh and Brandon and I decided to go shopping. Josh had his heart set on going to some huge music shop that specialised in percussion from around the world, so Brandon and I abandoned him to it, and went off to find the second hand record shops.

"Aw, there is some great stuff here!" I enthused, ferreting out a J.J. Fad album and the 12" remix record of L'Trimm's Cars That Go Boom and adding them to my pile. "Alley has been telling me I should listen to these guys for ages, but they're so expensive in New York." Pulling out my phone, I snapped an instagram of them and posted it to Alley. It wasn't just the Curtis boys sending each other photos to make each other laugh now, as Alley and I somehow seemed to have gone from leaving comments for one another on the boys' photos, to following one another.

"Christ," sighed Brandon, looking through the racks. "Do you remember when Canadian record shops were actually cheaper, with the exchange rate?"

"Yeah, we used to drive up to Windsor to buy British imports. It's still easier to get British imports in Canada, though," I shrugged, holding up a 12 inch picture disc of an early Blur single.

"Blur: are shite," snickered Brandon.

"Aw, come on. I liked their early Kinks-y stuff."

"No, so do I! But do you not remember those Blur: Are Shite T-shirts that Mogwai did?" Brandon moved round to the other side of the bins from me and carried on flicking through the records.

"Oh god, yeah. I was waiting for Blur to counter with Mogwai: Are Slint T-shirts."

"Ha! I'd totally wear one of those. Dave Pajo's an awesome bassist," Brandon countered. "I think they'd take it as a compliment."

I stopped as I came to a Leisure era interview picture-disc, staring at the almost impossibly young and beautiful British boys. "Christ, they were good-looking in the early days," I found myself saying without even meaning to.

Across the top of the bins, Brandon raised an eyebrow and smirked at me. "Never figured you for a Damon Albarn fan."

"God, no. I was more of an Alex James fan."

"He always seemed to me an insufferable twat," Brandon snorted, though he was smiling at me from under his hair.

"Yeah, everyone hates him because he's a twat, but there's hate-hate, and then there's hate-fancy. He was stupidly good-looking, though. Have you never noticed, that in every British band ever, the bass-player was always the best looking one? Everyone always ends up having a thing for the bass player. Alex James, Phil King, Deb Goodge, Julian Cope, Paul McCartney... There's something about bassists. All that low end. They're just hot."

I didn't realise how flirtatious that sounded until I saw Brandon smirking at me over the top of the record he had been examining. "And maybe some American bassists, too?"

"Oh yeah," I snorted. "Kim Deal. Total hottie."

"She's really beautiful, actually," Brandon agreed, his face lighting up from smirk to genuine pleasure. "On top of being an incredibly talented woman. And so fucking cool. We met her and she's just... I mean, in person, she's just a seriously handsome woman. I was, like... yeah, wow."

"You're totally smitten!" I exclaimed, staring at him, even as he blushed. It was adorable how bashful he'd become. "You totally have a crush on her, don't you!"

"Major crush. Yeah, well." He put down the copy of Come On Pilgrim that he had been examining. "It's not like you haven't been staring at that photo of Alex James for ten minutes now."

"I haven't," I protested, despite blatant evidence to the contrary. "And anyway, I've mostly been looking at his haircut. He had the coolest haircut in the world in, like, 93, 94. What do you reckon I'd look like with that hair?"

Brandon moved round to my side of the bins, and squinted at the photo. "It's not that different from what you've got now, just a bit shorter." But then he looked at me closely and gently moved the curtain of my hair with his fingertips. "I reckon you'd look cute as hell."

I turned away so he wouldn't see my blush. "Maybe I'll do it."

"You know who had the best haircut of the 90s, though?"

"Who?" I put the Blur record down and moved backwards through Bjork and Belly, both good candidates.

"Justine Frischmann, of Elastica. I think she might have had the best haircut of all time. That is one attractive woman," Brandon mused, flipping through the E section until he found their debut album and showed me her photo. Another tall, slim brunette with a long face and big eyes.

"Well, you certainly have your type, don't you?" I teased.

"Drop-dead cool brunettes who play a mean guitar? Fuck yeah." The corners of Brandon's mouth twitched up as he said it, so that his tooth twinkled nearly as much as his eyes.

I stared at him, but said nothing, feeling my cheeks getting slightly hot, and hoping that I wasn't blushing. As he went back to flipping through records, I mentally traced the curve of his hair as it fell across his cheek. It's not fair, I thought to myself. Brandon Curtis, why am I not your girlfriend?

We paid for our records separately, then carried on up Queen Street. But as I glanced down the next side street, I saw a hip-looking salon with photos of purple-haired models in the window, and got an idea. "Look, do you want to carry on without me? I just want to stop off for an hour or two."

He looked as if he were about to protest, but then he saw the salon. "Nah, if you're getting your hair cut, I want to come in and see."

"You really don't have to."

"I'll watch your stuff." He held out his hand to take my record shopping bag, and followed me in the door. "Besides, it's written in your contract," he teased. "If you change your look, you have to run it by Management."

"Secret Machines don't have a manager," I reminded him.

"We do, you're looking at him." He grinned widely.

I rolled my eyes as I walked up to the receptionist. "Do you have anyone available to cut my hair?"

"Do you know what you want?" she asked, so I told her, 90s BritPop bob, Alex James, Justine Frischmann. "If you can wait 15 minutes, I've got exactly the stylist for you."

When the hairdresser finally emerged, she took one look at my hair and told me "You need your roots touched up, too. Don't worry, I'll get you a much softer black, it'll suit your skin tone better, you'll see."

Sitting opposite me at a free workstation, Brandon started to laugh. "We're going to be here all afternoon, aren't we?"

"I told you, you don't have to stay."

The hairdresser went over and started to examine Brandon. "Ach, your hair is in terrible shape! Do you never condition it? You need a hot oil treatment, and I'll sort out your split ends. Don't worry, I'll to make sure you don't lose too much of the length." Before he could protest, he was whisked off into a back room to have his dirty hair washed, conditioned and treated.

I loved having my hair dyed, I loved the sectioning and partitioning and careful combing, and the gentle tug-tug-tug as she set it in foil. 

Brandon emerged from the back room, his hair wrapped in a turban. and laughed at me. "What's the foil for? You picking up signals from aliens? Earth to Charley, this is Marfa Space Base calling, you coming home?"

"Don't be silly, the tin foil is to block the signals from the government, so the Canadian Mounties can't read my thoughts," I told him, and he joked that the filling in his tooth sometimes picked up the BBC. Then I was off to have the dye rinsed out of my hair, just as the stylist walked up to Brandon and started menacing him with a pair of scissors.

I came back to find Brandon sitting in splendour, looking as soft and fluffy as a newborn chick, his hair straightened to his shoulders, but gently curling up at the ends. He looked quite pleased with himself, and even I had to admit, the stylist had done a good job, layering his stringy hair to make it look fuller. And then it was my turn to go under the snip-snip-snip. I had my back to the mirror, so I couldn't see what she was doing, but Brandon looked intrigued. I balked when she took out an electric razor to buzz the back of my neck - how short had she made it?

Finally, she turned my chair round, whisking off my cover as she brushed the last bits of hair from my shoulders. "What do you think?"

I blinked, and a beautiful young man stared back from the mirror. It was actually slightly uncanny, the deep asymmetrical V made half my face look like an androgynous boy, and the other half look like a French actress from the 60s. "I need my eyeliner," I blurted out, digging in my purse as I tried to get used to it. And as I moved, the hair cascaded into my face - OK, that was nice, and that would actually look fantastic onstage. I reapplied the thick black lines of battle paint, so that I looked like myself again, but I still didn't look quite like myself. Shaking my head as I did when I was playing a solo, I watched it fly out in geometric precision. 

"OK, yes, that is exactly what I wanted," I told the rather nervous looking stylist, and relief flooded her face. "It's gorgeous." I shook my head again, and watched it flip around. "Brandon?" I asked, nervously, shaking it back and forth. "What do you think?"

Brandon stood up and moved towards me, reaching out a tentative hand to touch my cheek, but he was only knocking away a stray lock of cut hair. "You confuse me," he told me with a wry smile. "You're the only person I know, that with long hair, you look like a pretty boy, but with short hair, you look like a beautiful woman."

"Hang on a minute," the stylist said, pushing Brandon back into his seat. "Toronto weather will ruin it in thirty seconds flat, so let me just..." She drew the metal comb through my hair again to get it just right, then shielded my eyes with her hand and encased me in a cloud of hairspray. "Now you're good."

Ugh! Feh! The taste of flurocarbons, and now my hair was a solid black helmet on my head, which did not move when I swished it, but I didn't want to hurt her feelings by mussing it all back up the way I wanted, in front of her. I dug in my purse for money, but Brandon waved me away and produced his wallet, pulling out a credit card.

"Don't be ridiculous, mine cost twice what yours did - and I got mine dyed," I protested.

"Nah, I've got it." The stylist took his card and lead him up to the receptionist to pay. "It's going on the tab."

"You're not paying for my haircut," I insisted.

He just grinned. "No, Secret Machines are paying for both our haircuts."

"Don't be fucking stupid, if I thought you were going to waste our money on this, I'd have insisted we stay in a nicer hotel, with a real breakfast, like Interpol's."

"Well, technically, Interpol are paying for both our breakfast and our haircuts." He smirked as he signed the slip, then offered me my record bag. "Speaking of which, do you want to stop at Whole Foods and get some more Rice Dream for the bus? I think Carlos finished yours again yesterday."

"That fucker," I snorted, and suddenly wanted a lot more recompense out of this tour than a free haircut. "No, I don't. I don't want to get _anything_ for him, ever, and I'm going to spit in the next bottle of vegan milk I get to stop him from drinking it." 

Brandon laughed at me, even as I fumed. "You've been on tour with him for two weeks, and you already hate him even more than anyone in his band does."

"I don't actually hate him... I just hate... Argh! I hate the way he plays so imposed-on and beleaguered, like nobody loves him, nobody does anything for him, nobody ever even _thinks_ of him. because we don't wait on him hand and foot. When the truth is, now I can't even walk past a Whole Foods shop without thinking about him - and _hating_ him. Like, that fucker has actually written himself into my brain with his whining self regard!"

"Do you actually hate-hate him, or do you hate-fancy him, like everyone else?" Brandon teased.

I stopped and looked at him, aghast. "No, trust me on this one. I might hate-fancy Alex James, but I hate- _hate_ that pompous shitbag." I stalked off down the street, forcing Brandon to break into a trot to keep up with me, laughing though he was.

"You know, it's OK, you can tell me," Brandon persisted, in that impossibly cute Texan drawl, his mouth twitching up at the corners as he played with me. As we walked together down the street, our strides matched against the pavement. "I've been on tour with this band before. I understand the inexorable pull that Interpol seem to exercise over the ladies..."

"Fuck _off_!" I spat, with a flash of genuine anger, until I saw him break into a full grin, his eyes twinkling, and realised that the shoe was on the other foot now. _He_ was gently mocking _me_. Fine, two could play this game. "Anyway, if I were inexorably pulled by a member of Interpol, it sure as hell wouldn't be Dengler."

The teasing smile didn't drop from his face. "Nah, I don't think you actually do fancy Dan. I think you enjoy the hell out of being fancied _by_ Dan, but I don't think you have any intention of doing anything with him."

That brought me up short, but I didn't drop my stride. "What makes you so sure of that?"

"Well, I wasn't sure until yesterday. But you had your chance with him last night, and you just didn't. I don't think you're actually interested in him... not anywhere near as much as he is in you."

"Maybe it just wasn't the right time, last night, with a billion cameraphones flashing around us."

Abruptly, he turned towards me, caught me by the wrist, and stopped us both, pulling me to face him. "Because I think you're better than that. I know that underneath your jokes and your teasing, you're a helpless romantic. And you talk big, and sometimes you might even stray, but in your heart, you're true."

I stared at him, feeling like his soft brown eyes had penetrated to the core of me, and seen something I didn't even like admitting to myself, and felt my heart bursting in my throat. "Christ, Bran. How can you know me so well?" I whispered, and I was about to confess it all, tell him, right there on the cold pavement of Queen Street, tell him, I am true, it's you I love, it's still you I love, that's the reason I walked away from dirty dancing - and maybe something more - with Daniel, because I want to be with _you_.

But as I stood there, just staring at Brandon, trying to work up the courage to say something, a random man shouted at us from across the street. "Hey! Youse! Which one is the boy and which one is the girl?"

For a second, I was actually shocked - like that was the sort of shitty thing I would expect someone to yell at us in the street in my tiny hometown in Indiana, but not in a big cosmopolitan town like Toronto. Brandon and I exchanged surprised looks, then started to laugh as we realised actually, yes, with his long, feathery hair and my short fringe, someone could conceivably make the mistake. And then we both turned at once to shout back at the heckler before we realised - actually we knew that voice.

"I'm teasing, guys. You look good. I like it." From across the street came barrelling down our burly drummer. "Anyways, look, I bought a new cabasa! It doesn't just go shooka-shooka, it actually goes swisha-swisha. And you'll never guess what I found down a side road behind the shop. All you can eat buffet of organic Indian vegetarian food! We're so going there for dinner tonight. I spoke to Tony and he's having them book us a giant table for the whole touring party. Family dinner tonight, it'll be great, won't it?"

Brandon and I moved, guiltily, a little further apart, and got caught up in Josh's ebullient chat as he lead us back to the appointed meeting place.

Daniel burst out laughing when he saw me, which didn't exactly install me with confidence. "Have you done something different to your hair, Charlotte?" A fraction of a second as his mouth twitched with amusement. "Or should I say, _Carla_?"

"What." I glared at him, but he put his hand to his face and started to stroke his chin thoughtfully, his eyes lighting up in an impish grin.

"Actually, I've been meaning to ask you - can you play bass as well as guitar?"

Suddenly Carlos tweaked what Daniel was implying, and looked me over, his lip curling in annoyance, as I fumed. I wasn't sure which one of us was more insulted by the comparison until Carlos snapped "Fuck you, Kessler!"

"Back off, Dan," Brandon warned, physically stepping between me and him. "She's not available." For a split second, I actually thought he might be talking about something other than music. "She already has a band."

"Prick," muttered Carlos under his breath as he tried to move away from Daniel, but realised that Paul was sitting at the other end, and recoiled physically, bouncing back towards our end of the table.

"You're just jealous, darling, cause that haircut looks better on her than it ever did on you," Daniel teased, blowing his bandmate a kiss as he loaded his plate with onion bhajis.

"I have never worn my hair that long," Carlos snapped, even as I tried to run my fingers through my fringe to break up the hairspray that was holding it plastered against my forehead. It was only the way that stupid woman had sprayed it, but Daniel didn't seem able to resist getting in another dig.

"And you were never that pretty, Carlos," retorted Daniel, his eyes twinkling. "Despite wearing more make-up than her."

"Fuck off," Carlos and I both snapped quickly, then glared at each other for speaking in unison. He clearly hated being on the same side as me, as much as I did.

As I found my own seat, I glared at Daniel. How could he go from being so effortlessly charming at night, to being so casually bitchy the next morning? Suddenly, I was doubly glad that I hadn't made good on the promise of dancing.

"Dan and Carlos, will you two just shut up and get married already?" Sam sighed long-sufferingly, separating them physically by placing his plate, piled high with vegetarian curry, between them, and sitting down. For a horrible moment, I looked over at Brandon, and wondered if, in ten years, we'd come to hate each other as much as Daniel and Carlos seemed to do. But then again, did Daniel really hate Carlos? I could never quite tell. It was obvious that Carlos loathed Daniel - but Carlos seemed to loathe everyone, even his groupies. Especially his groupies. But Daniel... there was something of the playground in his taunting of Carlos. The same way that he and Paul ripped the shit out of each other, with big grins on their faces, though that was clearly completely affectionate, like the way Brandon and Ben tussled together. Maybe he was just one of those guys who only ever showed affection by pulling your pigtails? I couldn't quite work out if Daniel was a jerk or not, but I certainly noticed that I seemed to ask myself that question more when the rest of his band were around. Like _everything_ was a performance with Daniel, even flirting with girls.

Tempers returned to normal as we returned, full of food, back to the bus and separated out into our habitual lounges. For all the insinuations that Daniel had made, there was no other personality test apart from smokers in the back and non-smokers in the front. And even though it was visibly and audibly Daniel and Carlos who clashed, constantly, over every little thing from haircuts to travel irons to non-dairy creamer, it was _Paul_ and Carlos who could never stand to be in the same room, as the one would stub out his cigarette and get up and leave, whenever the other came in - usually Paul beating a hasty retreat back to the non-smoking lounge to see if Josh was up for another round of Grand Theft Auto.

Overnight, we made the short drive to Detroit. It was kind of scary how there was no aftershow and the club cleared out almost instantly after the show, as if people were afraid to hang around in the centre of town. We packed up our gear as quickly as we could, and got out of our town, through acres and acres of burned-out lots on the way to the highway. Down to Cincinnati for another enthusiastic small-town, then back up though Indiana, to Chicago, along roads that got more and more familiar as we got closer to my home.

Brandon insisted I sit by the window as the bus rolled through my old stomping grounds. "Is it weird to be back here?" he asked as I pointed out the highway exit that lead to my old high school.

"Not really. It's been less than a year since I was last here. Funny how I swore I was not coming back until I was famous, but here I am, regardless."

"What, do you not feel famous yet?" he teased.

"Ha!" I snorted.

"Even now you've been featured on IndieGossipSite.com?"

"What."

"Did you not see when Moira showed them round to everyone on her iPad? Ooh, maybe she didn't show you on purpose." His eyes flashed with mischief. Was he trying to cause trouble between me and Moira, or was this just more teasing?

"Oh, for fucks sake..." I sighed, pulling out my iPhone and trying to get a signal. We were close enough to Chicago now that phone reception was OK, but the site still took forever to load. Mostly there were pictures of Paul and the Supermodel, but there, at the bottom, oh Christ. There was a close-up from the Toronto dancefloor, Daniel and I dancing together, my arms up, half obscuring my face, his arms low, looking like they were resting on my hips, though I knew it was just the angle. The caption declared "Daniel Kessler of Interpol and the guitarist of his support band get to know each other just a little bit closer."

I forced myself to try to stay calm. Was it Moira's picture? That was my first concern, because if she'd lied to me, and sold it... No. The photo was credited to some other dude, and the angle was different anyway. But still! I felt so exposed, so violated.

I turned to Brandon. "I'm not fucking him, before you start in on me."

"I know you're not fucking him," he shrugged calmly. "I was with you that whole night, remember." A pause as he took the phone from me and examined the text. Was that why he was being so nice to me again? Was he relieved now that he figured out I wasn't actually interested in Daniel? "I just wish they'd put in more of a plug for the band."

"Brandon!" I punched him on the arm. Just when I'd started to think of him as being a decent human being again.

"Well, it's what Josh said before you joined - having a cute girl in the band would be good for publicity." He was smiling teasingly as he said it, but I still could never quite tell when he was kidding. A few weeks into the tour, and the kid gloves had come off, we treated each other like family now - with all the disrespect that implied.

"Fuck you."

"At least the Interpol fangirls on Tumblr are better with ferreting out names. They've worked out who Secret Machines are. But you might wanna stay off the internet for a while, though, they're out for you..." That was definitely teasing, I could see his eyes glinting with mirth, but I wasn't in the mood for it.

"The fucking internet is ruining my life," I moaned.

"The fucking internet has just finished downloading a live bootleg of Neurosis from 1999, so I'm pretty pleased with the fucking internet right now. Do you want to hear some proper doom metal?" He offered me the other earbud as a kind of peace offering, so I took it and the two of us settled down to listen to the concert as he futzed about on the net, and I stared out the window as the familiar buildings of Chicago came into view.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chicago. Homecoming gig for Charley, with all the attendant nerves as backstage is flooded with her family, old friends, former bandmates... and one particular ex boyfriend.
> 
> Daniel gallantly steps in for a ruse to take revenge on the ex-boyfriend that ruined Charley's life and drove her to NYC. But as he takes it just that little bit too far, is this his way of not so subtly trying it on with her?

It was so strange being backstage in a venue that I'd spend so much of my life at, in front of the stage. The theatre was one of the few places in Chicago that Your Silent Face had never got to play - and for most of my life it seemed almost scarily unattainable, a sort of dream gig on a level with playing the Meadowlands Arena or somewhere. And yet here we were, sitting in the dressing room, picking at sandwiches and squabbling over the shower.

"Go easy on her," Brandon told Josh. "Home town gig, you know?"

"What was I afraid of? That no one would turn up, not my family, not my friends, not my old bandmates? Or was I more afraid that they would? But halfway through Interpol's soundcheck, my phone buzzed, a message from my Mom saying that they were outside. I practically ran out to the backstage door and ushered my parents in, pressing the Access All Areas passes that Tony had provided onto their jackets. They looked so proud, and slightly awed by the size of the venue. "We're only the support band," I told my Mom apologetically, but she was having none of it. She was impressed by the venue, she was impressed by the stage, and she was impressed by Interpol.

"They're very good-looking lads," she said to me in an exaggerated stage whisper, eyeing up Paul and Daniel. "I wouldn't mind having one of them for a son in law."

"Moooommmmm," I protested, feeling embarrassed as Brandon had just emerged from backstage, but Moira saved the day by hopping down from the side of the stage.

"You must be Charley's Mum - you look so alike," Moira purred, reaching up onto her tip-toes to throw her arms around my Mom.

"Mum! Oh, I do like that, your accent is so elegant - reminds me of how my husband used to talk, a long time ago, when he first came over from Scotland. You're Irish, though, am I right?"

"Northern Irish, to be sure, Belfast born and bred," Moira chirped, exaggerating her accent the way she always did when she talked of home, even though she hadn't even been back there in five years.

"Oh, we've heard so much about you, we're so excited to meet you. It's wonderful you're on the tour, keeping Charley company."

I rolled my eyes - behind Moira's back so she couldn't see me of course. Since the episode with the Supermodel in Toronto, she had kept an even closer grip on Paul. I barely saw her. "And this is Brandon, the singer in my new band," I introduced, gesturing for him to step forward.

"Oh, he's dishy," my Mom gushed, even as she shook his hand. Brandon actually blushed slightly, his ears turning bright red. And for a moment, I had the sudden urge to confess everything to my Mom, to tell her about how I loved the dishy singer, but he didn't love me, and how I was bending myself out of shape over it. I desperately wanted to be alone with her, to ask her advice, or just try to get some commiseration, but she had started to invite everyone to dinner with us, and it looked like we were not going to get any private time.

"We won't have much time, we've got to be back for our own soundcheck," I protested as I heard her planning supper.

"Well, we can get takeaway then, and bring it back here for you. Maybe we can get some pizzas for you and bring them back for everybody? You all look so thin," my mother fussed.

I started to protest that I was a vegan and I didn't eat pizza, but Josh had joined us. "Pizza? Like, proper Chicago style deep dish pizza? Where? What's this about?"

At one point, we were all going to go, but then oddly, Brandon held his hand out in front of Josh, gave him a meaningful look, and the two of them hung back. Maybe he wanted to give me time along with my Mom, maybe he was weird about meeting my family, I don't know. But it was nice to be alone with my family - and Moira tagged along, too, but at that point, she practically was family. I kept hugging my Mom in the pizza shop, even as she fussed with my new haircut and told me to trim my long fringe or pin it back so people could see my face. At any other time, I'd have snapped at her for picking at my appearance, but now it just seemed comforting and familiar, like this was how she expressed her concern for me. So I leaned my head on her shoulder and listened to her talking about old friends from school I hadn't seen in a dozen years, but she still thought I might be interested in hearing about. I had the sudden desire to ask if we could just crash at their house overnight, me and Brandon on the sofabed in the spare room, then remembered we had to leave after midnight, to drive to Milwaukee so our driver didn't overrun his contractually allotted amount of daily road-time.

As we walked back to the theatre, I saw a cab drive up to the stage door, and deposit a tall, thin figure shrouded in a long coat, a scarf and dark sunglasses. OK, I knew a Chicago spring could get a bit brisk sometimes, but that was over the top. I was about to point her out to my Mom so we could have a bit of a laugh over her, when Moira let out a slight gasp of surprise.

"What's _she_ doing here?"

The mystery woman pulled out a phone, and stood outside the door, waiting for someone to answer as we approached. Ignoring her, I just went straight to the door and knocked, sharpish, hoping that the security guard would be somewhere nearby, but to my surprise, instead of the guard, Paul emerged, still holding his phone to his face.

"Thanks," I chirped, but Paul walked straight past us, as if he hadn't even seen me, and went to the woman. It wasn't until we got back to our dressing room, and I saw Moira puffing herself up with indignation, powdering her nose in the mirror instead of disappearing off to Interpol's dressing room to find Paul, that I tweaked who it had been. The Supermodel. So why was Moira upset about that? Don't tell me she'd suddenly developed some misplaced loyalty to Jacinta.

But I didn't get a chance to ask, as Josh immediately threw himself upon the pizza boxes. "What the fuck? This one has tomato sauce and vegetables - garlic and onions and olives and shit - but no cheese. How is that even a pizza?"

"You've never seen a vegan pizza?" I laughed, relieving him of the box before he could wolf it down anyway.

Just as I rescued my small vegan pizza from Josh's ravening jaws, there was a discreet little tap at our dressing room door. Brandon leaned backwards in his chair to open it, revealing three covetous sets of eyes attached to our hosts. "We heard a rumour there was pizza?" Daniel enquired politely, smiling hopefully at my Mom.

Even my Mom was powerless against the Kessler grin. "Yes, of course. Come in, there's plenty for everyone," she insisted, passing one of the boxes over towards them.

"Oh my goodness, you really did bring pizza," Daniel enthused as he helped himself to the quattro formaggi. "Wow, this is so great, Mrs. Wildwood. Could you possibly adopt us?"

"No way," protested Josh through a mouthful of cheese. "Get your own Band Mom. Charley's Mom is our Band Mom now."

"Damn, this is good pepperoni," Sam observed, tipping his hat back on his head in order to cram whole slices of pizza down his throat like a sword-swallower.

"Try the ham and pineapple," Brandon offered, and they switched boxes.

"Ham and pineapple on pizza is an abomination," tutted Carlos, though I noted that didn't stop him from helping himself to another slice.

"It's Hawaiian, it's totally traditional," Josh pointed out, folding over a slice of quattro formaggi so the cheese didn't spill all over his shirt. I had thought my Mom had bought way too much pizza, and we would probably be eating it again for breakfast on the tour bus, but five lads were making short work of it.

Within about ten minutes, they had actually demolished the stack of pizza boxes my Mom and I had brought, except for the one last slice of pizza that politeness dictated no one should actually take. It was actually quite funny watching them dance around it, all of them wanting it, but none of them daring to be rude enough to grab it. Josh offered it to Brandon, who refused and offered it to Sam, who refused and passed the box to Daniel, who shook his head and proffered it in Carlos' direction - who shrugged, said "Don't mind if I do," and scooped it up.

I had to suppress the urge to laugh, watching Carlos, oblivious to the eyes upon him, wolfing down the slice. Daniel, grinning, waited until he was almost finished, then made his face as plaintive as possible, and looked at Carlos reproachfully, saying in a funny high voice "I can't believe you ate the last piece of pizza."

Carlos stopped eating mid-chew. "What?"

"Yeah, Carlos, I can't believe you ate the last piece of pizza," Sam repeated, shaking his head mournfully.

Carlos looked back and forth between his two bandmates with a slightly panic-struck expression, as if a chord of embarrassment had actually managed to penetrate his usual oblivious sense of entitlement. "You were all offered," he asserted, with the slight edge of moral indignation. "You didn't want it."

"No one ever accepts the last slice of pizza, the first time it's offered," Daniel insisted. He seemed to be genuinely enjoying this, especially as Carlos' face gave way to genuine discomfort.

Josh grinned slyly and decided to join in. "Yeah, man, that's like the code, dude. You never take the last slice of pizza. That's just rude, Carlos."

Brandon smiled and raised an eyebrow, but said nothing, deciding to sit this one out, even as Carlos looked more and more indignant, and eventually sputtered "You can't seriously expect me to abide by some bizarre tribal etiquette you've never seen fit to inform me of. It was offered round, clearly no one wanted it, I didn't see any reason for good food to go to waste."

He was still holding the remains of the slice, but Daniel seemed determined that he should have no enjoyment of it, calmly suggesting in that same high, whiny schoolteacher tone, "Maybe we were going to save it for Paul. Maybe Paul would have wanted a slice of pizza."

I thought Carlos' face was actually going to turn purple with rage. "Fuck. Paul," he snapped, in a withering tone, as he dropped what was left of the slice back into the box, turned on his heel and stormed out of the room.

Daniel burst into cascades of laughter, giggling with his hand over his mouth, which slowly infected the rest of the room, even as Sam shook his head and cocked his hat over one eye. "Dan, one of these days he really is going to snap."

"I know, but it's just so funny," Daniel insisted, barely able to contain his mirth. "He always falls for it, every damn time."

"Yeah, well, if no one else wants this," Josh interrupted, reaching out to claim the remains of the contentious slice.

Daniel put on his funny, high girl-voice again, but he couldn't even get through it this time without laughing. "I can't believe..."

"Yeah, nice try," snorted Josh, refusing to rise to the bait as he crammed the last morsel into his mouth.

Interpol sloped off to their soundcheck, leaving me free for some quality time with my parents, but soon enough it was time for our own soundcheck - though I noted when we got to the stage that The Supermodel had taken Moira's place sitting up by Paul's amp. Moira buzzed with irritation, but I was too concerned with finding a place for my parents to sit. My Mom was easy, settling down in the wings with exaggerated maternal pride, but my Dad could make a nuisance of himself, insisting that he wanted to see how the onstage monitor system worked. Luckily, my Mom took him in hand, so I was able to to get through my soundcheck, throwing in a couple of Kinks riffs to amuse my Dad, though of course, Daniel watched from the other side of the stage, and thought they were for him, breaking into a shuffle of a mod fancy footwork.

I wanted so desperately for my parents to be impressed - and I think they were obviously pleased at how much I clearly enjoyed playing the music, though I don't think it was really to their tastes. The soundcheck ended, and the stage lights went off so they could open the venue. My stomach started to fill up with butterflies, as the hall started to fill up with people. This was my hometown gig. There would be people I knew in the audience, and not just the friendly and encouraging faces of my parents. People I went to school with might be in the audience. Every ex bandmate I'd had for the past ten years might be down there, judging me. Ex boyfriends. There would almost certainly be ex boyfriends in the audience. Chris. Barring the event of wild horses stampeding down Lakeshore Avenue, Chris would be in the audience, and knowing him, he'd be front and centre, standing head and shoulders above the crowd. Oh fucking god, help. I can't handle this. Where was Brandon when I needed him?

Trying to steel myself, I walked up to the side of the stage and peered out into the audience, but I couldn't see him. Had I been spared? Was there a god, or a least a kindly goddess of soured love and revenge looking after me? I turned and walked back down into the backstage area, nodding at Daniel, who'd been up onstage checking his guitars, and then I froze. Fuck. How. The Fuck. Had Chris. Got backstage? I'd seen him, but he hadn't seen me. He was still chatting with the concert promoter - oh shit, of course. He used to do bookings at the Metro, he'd known Chris for yonks. And yet, still, I was not prepared for this. To tell the truth, I didn't know if I would ever be prepared for this.

"Daniel," I hissed, and he appeared beside me, all smiles and unruly curls, as he had showered after soundcheck, but hadn't straightened his hair for the night's performance yet. "Daniel, please, if you do one favour for anyone in your entire life, can you please just do this for me, without asking why?"

He grinned mischievously, his eyes sparkling at the idea that he might get to do something underhanded. "Sure. What?"

"Put your arm around me," I whispered.

"OK... but like what? Like, around your shoulders, or around your waist, or like..."

"Like the ex boyfriend who ripped my heart out of my chest, and fed it to me, for breakfast, is standing a dozen yards away from us, and is going to turn around at any moment," I pleased.

"Ah. I see. Promise not to hold this against me, right?" he snickered, and I nodded desperately in reply.

Daniel moved closer, almost unbearable close, and curled one arm around the small of my back, letting his hand slip down until he found the back pocket of my jeans, and slipped inside - and I swear he copped a bit more of a feel than was necessary. Then he leaned over on a large flight case, pulling me towards him, his other hand wrapping round my waist, his finger catching in one of my belt loops as he turned me gently towards him, guiding me between his knees.

I was about to protest that that was a little more than I had intended, when Chris suddenly turned around, and caught sight of me. "Charley! Charley Wildwood. It is you, isn't it?" he called out, walking towards us with his arms spread wide as Jesus as if he expected me to hug him, after everything he'd done to me, but then he saw Daniel, and stopped in his tracks.

"Oh. Hi, Chris." I managed to sound quite calm, considering - but at that moment, I was more disturbed by the fact that Daniel had leaned his head against my torso, threading himself under my arm, and had started to rub his cheek back and forth against the side of my breast, than I was upset about my ex. Really, Dan, that was a bit much - but then again, I was grateful of the distraction.

"Um, hi. I don't think we've met?" Trying to act like this was no big deal, Chris abandonned the Jesus-hugs-me pose and extended his hand in Daniel's direction.

"No." Daniel gave me an exaggerated slap on the ass, and I nearly retaliated with a jab to his right eye before I remembered I was actually grateful for this ruse, then he extracted his left hand - making it quite plain where his right hand still was - and offered it limply to Chris. "I'm Daniel. Daniel Kessler."

Chris nearly tripped over himself. Fucking typical - he didn't recognise the man, but he recognised the name. "Oh my god, I love your band," he managed to blurt out.

"Thanks," said Daniel, and replaced his hand on my hip, though this time, he tried to slide his fingers up under my shirt. Now that was a step too far. Carefully, I retrieved his hand and pushed it back down to my hip.

As he groped blindly for words, for a split second, I almost felt sorry for Chris. But then I remembered. This was the man who had impregnated the lead singer of our band behind my back, both destroying our relationship and putting the band, the only thing in my life that I'd ever cared about, on hiatus for nine months, just when our first album was supposed to come out. (Though really, by the time Alison's baby was born, she wanted nothing more to do with the band, and to be honest, neither did I.) No, I didn't feel sorry for Chris in the slightest, I felt my blood boiling, and I wanted him to feel weird, to feel awkward, in fact, to _hurt_ , as much as I had done during those nine months. Daniel's cheekbone resting against my nipple didn't bother me - in fact, it was the only thing that stopped me from flying into a rage. So instead, I bent down and rubbed my face against his hair, depositing a kiss on the top his head, noting how much softer his wavy light brown locks were when they weren't full of styling product.

'Look, I'm sorry," interrupted Daniel, even as Chris was trying to stutter out some vague invitation about, how, like, maybe we could go for a beer after the show, and wouldn't it be great if perhaps his new band could play some shows with them, and... "Actually, to be honest, we're trying to catch a bit of a quiet moment alone together, before the gig, if you don't mind."

"Oh yeah, of course," mumbled Chris, backing away from us as Daniel moved his legs together, trapping me between his thighs. My nipples were so erect I thought they'd tear holes in my shirt.

"Though, if you want to talk about doing some shows together - go down that corridor, second door on the left. Tall guy with the moustache is the one you want - ask for Carlos," Daniel offered, and Chris scurried off.

I clutched the back of Daniel's neck and tried very hard not to burst out laughing. The mood that Carlos had been in for most of the tour, he was likely to take Chris's head off if he even approached him. "Oh my god, that was actually mean."

"I dunno. I kinda enjoyed it, though. Oh, to be a fly on that wall," Daniel teased, though he seemed a little loathe to let me go.

With a heavier heart than I'd expected, I untangled his hands from my jeans and stepped away. "Thank you. I totally owe you one, now."

"No problem. My pleasure." He crossed his legs so I couldn't glance down and see if it was his literal pleasure, but the way his eyes swept up and down my body, I kinda suspected he'd enjoyed more than just tormenting Chris. "Look..." he started to venture, but at that moment, there was the tramp of feet in the hall, and there came Brandon and Josh, with Moira a step behind them, leading my parents to the VIP balcony where they could watch the show.

"Are you ready?" Brandon asked with an excited grin. He was in a good mood for some reason, as he'd clearly missed the entire exchange with Chris. I tried not to wonder what his reaction would have been had he come a few minutes earlier and seen Daniel and me in an apparently passionate clinch. I tried even harder not to think about what we would have done if it had been _Brandon_ who had been checking the equipment onstage when Chris turned up.

"Yeah." I forced myself to grin back at him, and winked. There was a fuck of a lot of emotion right now that I would take great pleasure in beating out of my guitar onstage right now.

As I walked onto the stage, half the front row went mad. I picked up my guitar, then peered out into the audience. Oh my god, there was my high school music teacher. I waved cheerily. And there were Joe and Randy and Jirou from my old Dojo! There was Sue and her best friend Carrie, who had gone to see every gig Your Silent Face had ever played, from our first covers-band residency at the alterna-bar at the end of their street. In fact, I knew almost every person visible on the right hand side of the stage. And at that moment, I understood why home-town gigs were so powerful. This was going to be an awesome show. I waved, pointed at a few more friends and gave them the thumbs up, then Josh started to thump the drum kit behind me, pulling me back to the music.

It was the best gig of the tour, for me. One of those gigs where you felt absolutely bourne up on the audience reaction, as if their excitement joined with yours, and your energies all just combined to blow the roof off the fucking joint. Brandon was in a really good mood, flirting with the audience, and teasing me musically, flipping little melodic in-jokes back and forth with me as we played. I loved him when he was like this, the push and pull of tension as we wrestled the songs back and forth between us. Josh seemed rocket-powered, and as I stood facing him at the end of Nowhere Again, bringing down the apocalyptic crashes again and again, we drew it out longer and longer, bigger and bigger, louder and louder, until the walls were shaking with the magnitude of the sound we made.

I came offstage and hugged everyone in sight - Brandon, Josh, Moira, my parents, then went bounding off into the crowd to find my friends. So many people were patting me on the back, congratulating me, trying to shake my hand - not just old friends but new ones, who had heard there was a local girl made good up on the stage. Jirou insisted we get shots of tequila, and we all drank. Fuck, I just wanted to get completely slaughtered, jumping up and down on the balls of my feet to the nervous stop-start rhythm that Daniel was skittering out onstage.

But then Moira appeared and reminded me that my parents were asking after me, so I threw my arms around everyone I could find, and disappeared off upstairs to the balcony to find my parents, and my music teacher, and even Sue and Carrie waiting for me up there. What an evening! What happiness! I didn't want it to end, even as I got everyone up there on their feet and dancing to Interpol.

But end it did, and I had to say goodbye to Sue and Carrie, and shouted and waved to Joe and Jirou as they exited the venue downstairs. My parents hung around longer, waiting for us to pack up the backstage area, coil up our cables, collect our guitars and retrieve whatever belongings we'd left in our dressing rooms. Outside on the pavement, my parents waited outside the big purple bus, trying to stave off the minutes until we had to go. For a moment, I thought of inviting my Mom and Dad up to see our tiny living space, but almost immediately thought better of it.

"Yeah, I'd invite you in, but really, you don't want to see it It's like a teenage boy's bedroom up there, smell and all."

"Uh-huh," Moira agreed. "Eleven dudes and us, it's starting to smell a bit goaty in the bunk section."

"Oh, you poor dears. Shall I get you some air freshener?"

"We've tried. It's no good. What we really need is for Paul and Carlos to maybe bathe more than about once a week," Moira sighed despairingly.

"I showered after I got offstage," Josh offered, coming out to hover in the doorway. I thought perhaps he had come to fetch us, but the bus showed no sign of leaving.

"Yes, and you always smell delightful, Joaquin," Moira said politely.

My Mom glanced nervously at her watch. "When are you going? Goodness, they keep you lot up late."

"At least we get to sleep late to make up for it - the bunks are windowless, so you can sleep as long as you like, once you get used to the engine noise," I explained, but I noted that my father was distinctly losing his sparkle. "Look, you guys can take off if you need to. I know you've got a long drive."

"No, we'll wait. It's so rare we get to see you, right Adam?"

"Yes, yes of course." My father had almost drifted off on his feet.

"What's the hold-up, anyway?" I wondered aloud.

Carlos pushed his way off the bus, shoving his way past Josh. "Paul's gone fucking AWOL. We've been trying to ring him on his cellie for twenty minutes, but he won't pick up. Let me use one of your phones." He glared at Moira as she offered hers. "One he won't recognise the fucking number of, sweetheart?"

"Here, use mine," my mother offered diplomatically. But it was no use. The phone didn't even ring, it went straight to answering machine.

"He's fucking turned the thing off. What do we do?" demanded Carlos, glaring at us as if it were our fault. "For fucks sake, are we fucking stranded here? In the fucking midwest?"

"We're not leaving until he turns up," Tony the road manager supplied.

"You are fucking kidding me." Carlos turned his irritated glare on Tony. "You left me in fucking Amsterdam, before. I had to get a flight back to England on my own tab."

"With all due respect, Carlos, you're not the lead singer," Tony sighed long-sufferingly.

"I am the fucking frontman of this band, at least as far as our following are concerned," Carlos snapped, whirling on his heels and staring up and down the road. "Fuck this. I'm going to repair to a hotel since it's become obvious we're going nowhere tonight." He disappeared back into the bus, returned with a girl who looked far too young to be as wobblingly drunk as she was, then dragged her up the street behind him.

My Mom blinked, looking quite surprised and slightly taken aback by the kind of tantrum we'd all grown far too used to, but Brandon started to softly snicker, moving towards me to quietly say "If I ever start to behave like that, please, promise me, you'll take me out back and shoot me."

"Yup, trust me, Charley will hold the gun and I'll pull the trigger," laughed Josh from the door. "So what are we doing now?"

Daniel appeared at the door, his suitcase tucked under his arm. "Well, I'm sorry, guys, but if we're staying here the night, I'm going to a hotel, too." He moved off in the direction that Carlos had disappeared in, albeit without the entourage. "Wait up, Dengler, I'm coming with you! We can share a room."

"What about you?" My Mom looked between us, worried.

"I guess we'll sleep on the bus," I shrugged.

"Oh no, you're not. It's far to cold - and anyway. If you're staying another night in Chicago, _I'm_ having you." She looked at me with such soppy fondness, as if some secret wish had been granted, that I threw my hands up and agreed. "You're all welcome - we've got plenty of room. Though we might be a bit squashed in the car - if anyone doesn't mind a bit of doghair, they can always ride in the back."


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charley and Brandon flirt over cello-playing and childhood memories after being stranded at her parents' house for the night, while Moira frets over Paul's disappearance (with The Supermodel?) And the truth about the Moira-Paul-Jacinta love triangle finally comes out, leaving Charley shocked - and worried for her friend.

We all somehow got in the car, and I sat, perching on the hump between Brandon and Moira, for the nearly hour-long journey it took to get back to the village of my youth - though granted, my father took advantage of the clear post-midnight roads to speed shamelessly. And there was my childhood home! How tiny it looked, compared to the canyons of New York. But then again, once we got inside, all sitting round the cavernous kitchen drinking hot cocoa that my Mom had made - with a generous shot of brandy - it amazed me how much bigger suburban rooms were than tiny cramped New York apartments.

As we drank, my Mom fussed round the house, trying to find bedding for everyone. "Girls, I've put you in the guest room, since I don't think you'll mind sharing a bed?" Moira nodded and went off to investigate, making sure she claimed the side closest to the bathroom, no doubt. "Brandon, you and Josh can have Charlotte's old room, since there's twin beds in there. Survivors of many a teenage sleepover," she giggled, carrying through two single bedspreads, decorated with a horse motif.

Brandon smiled slyly at me. "So you were horsey, as a kid?"

"I was a Tomboy, of course I was horsey," I snorted.

"I can't wait to see your childhood bedroom," he teased, raising an arched eyebrow. "Trying to imagine what you were like as a teenager."

Feeling emboldened by the brandy, I smirked right back. "Come on, I'll show you." This was fucking weird, leading Brandon down the passage of my childhood home, feeling oddly like I was smuggling a boy into my room late night, after hours. Not that I'd ever done such a thing, I was far too awkward with boys. I turned on the lightswitch, expecting things to be really different, but the light showed that very little had changed. OK, the posters had been peeled from the walls, and the blutack scraped off, but other than that, it was still very much the bedroom of an ordinary teenage girl, with faded floral curtains and those silly, horsey bedspreads on the beds.

"Which was one yours?" Brandon asked with the flicker of a leer. "I think I kinda like the idea of sleeping in your old bed. What's that Smiths song? _Bring me your pillows, the ones that you dream on_..." Oh come on, Brandon, what, _now_ you decide that you want me again? Tonight of all nights? When I'd found myself felt up - even if it was just play acting - by Daniel? Or was that it? Had he seen more than he had let on? No, he wouldn't have been in such a good mood if he'd thought... But he was moving towards me, his lips curling up in a smile that seemed to show that yeah, he was thinking it over, he was remembering that brief weekend in the snow. My insides felt all funny, as I realised that I would actually still leap at the chance to do it all again.

"This one," I said quietly, sitting down gently on the edge of the bed nearest the window, with the view down the street, and out towards the farmland of Indiana where you could, still, occasionally catch sight of a horse in the paddocks.

But Brandon's eye had been caught by something else, and he'd wandered off. Just fucking typical. "Wow, you've got a lot of trophies. What are they for? Ah, Judo... Judo... Show Jumping... Swimming. And... ah, a certificate for reaching proficiency in sight reading for the cello." He turned towards with a luminous expression. "Is your cello here?"

Peeling myself off the bed, I stood up and walked to the closet. "I can't imagine it's not." I opened the door and yes, there was the shiny lacquered white flight case, still covered with stickers of bands I'd once loved.

"This is definitely coming with us," Brandon insisted, manhandling it out of the closet and resting it down on the floor to open it.

"You've got to be kidding, we don't have the room."

"Tons of room down in the baggage locker. It can go down with our gear. How else are we going to get it home? It'll be the easiest thing, just to take it with us. Save on shipping."

"But I don't play it any more," I protested, flopping back down on my bed.

Brandon had got the case open, and as I stared down at its warm, amber-coloured wood, I had to admit I was tempted. "You could start again. It's never too late to start again."

"Give it here - make sure you unscrew its leg as you take it out of the case..." Brandon did as he was directed, he took the instrument out with such care as he'd lavish on a lover, pulled out its leg and fastened it, then handed it to me. As I fiddled with the strings, making faces at how out of tune it was, he found the bow and dug for some resin, then handed both to me. "I bear no responsibility for this, don't blame me if it sounds awful..." I drew the bow carefully across the strings, feeling them vibrate under my fingers, feeling the body of the instrument resonate between my legs. If only I could remember a tune. Sibelius? Wagner? Maybe some sentimental Chopin tune, if I could force my fingers to remember how it went. Clutching it closer towards me, I dragged out some Chopin-ish flavoured tune, though it was nothing like the real thing. Brandon just sat on the floor, gaping at me. "Sorry, this must sound like shit. I've got it all the wrong way around."

"It sounds so beautiful to me," Brandon whistled, leaning closer towards me. "I don't know what you're trying to play well enough to know if you're getting it wrong, but it sounds lovely to me."

"Let me try and play something you recognise." I thought for a moment, then an impish grin crossed my face and I put bow to strings again, drawing out a passable version of the vocal melody from The Leaves Are Gone.

Brandon's face lit up with excitement. "Oh my god. You have to do that. We have to think of some way that you can perform that live with us, exactly like that."

"Oh my god. That would be so cool!" I looked up to see Josh standing in the door, watching, my parents two steps behind him. "Play that again... please."

I blushed a little, then tried it out again, getting a little further in the melody before I flubbed the transition, and just ended on a slight flourish. "Something like that. I don't know. We can work it out in the studio." I could hear it already, in my head, how it would sound, layered over the guitar on some of the new songs.

"Oh god, this is so exciting, this is going to sound so amazing," Josh enthused, even as he claimed the bed opposite me. My parents beamed with pride, and I felt myself actually caught up in the pleasure of the moment. And then I felt awkwardly bashful again, remembering that I was in my childhood bedroom with my band, playing the fucking cello.

"Well, we'll see. I suppose we can take it with us and see how it turns out. But I've got to go to bed now, I'm exhausted. The cello will still be here tomorrow."

But Brandon caught my hand as I tried to leave the room, looking into my eyes with barely-concealed love, and gave it a little squeeze. "You are terrifyingly amazing. You know that, right?"

"I wish it did me some good," I said softly, hoping that my parents didn't hear as they shuffled off down the hallway to their own bedroom.

"If things were different..." sighed Brandon, shaking his head, though he still hadn't let go of my hand.

No, stop it, Brandon, don't do this. It's not fair. You can't get my hopes up like this, only to dash them when you change your mind again tomorrow, after the brandy and the adrenaline rush of a good gig wears off. "But they're not, are they," I asked softly, scanning his face for some kind of reaction, wanting him to protest, daring him to say, _yes, things have changed, I want to be with you now_ , but he shrugged and kind of crumpled down onto my old bed, and I shrugged and walked off.

Moira was in a state when I got back to our room. "Paul has disappeared," she announced. "He's not even answering _my_ texts. Something must have happened to him."

"Move over," I told her, kicking off my boots, but I was too tired to change out of my clothes. "I think we both know what happened to him, and we saw it arriving at the theatre in dark sunglasses and an unseasonable scarf."

"You don't think he's with _her_ again, do you?" Her face looked panicked.

"For fucks sake, I don't see where else he could be." My head hit the pillow and wanted to be out. The day had already been too much of an emotional roller coaster ride for me to take much more.

"Oh!" cried Moira aloud, flinging down her phone and flipping herself over onto her side, facing away from me, pulling the pillow down over her head. Well, for fucks sake. I knew all about her "hot celtic blood" - she told me about it often enough - but even I thought that was excessive. He was screwing a model on tour. It happened. But much like the cello, he would still be there, in the morning. Though unlike the cello, he wasn't even actually hers.

\-----

I dreamed about my cello, in the night. I was sitting by the shore of a lake, up in Michigan somewhere, near where my parents had once had a summer house. And it was my job to sing up the sun. So I sat on the shore of this darkened lake, and slowly, painfully, my fingers protesting at the movement, I played, little tiny golden filaments of light coming from my strings as I made them sound. And the little tiny filaments flew up into the sky and bundled together, ravelling themselves like a ball of wool, until the dawn started to peek, all golden-pink, over the edge of the lake.

When I woke, I crept from my bed and picked my way carefully into my - the boys' - bedroom, to retrieve my cello from its case. The case squeaked as I opened it, and I froze. Across the room, Josh just turned over and pulled the blankets up over his head, a mountain of horse-motifs and wool. But next to me, Brandon's big round face twitched, his nose wrinkled a couple of times like a small woodland creature, and then one large, round, owl-like eye opened.

He smiled when he saw me. "I knew you wouldn't be able to resist it," he whispered, then opened the other eye, his body stretching and shifting before rolling out of bed. "Is there somewhere we can play, quietly, and not wake anyone up?"

"We?" I asked. Brandon gestured to the foot of his bed, where a guitar case was stowed. Ah, so he'd gone back into the closet after I'd left and found the old acoustic I hadn't had the space to bring to New York. "Yeah, grab your coat, come on."

We crept together, out into the shimmering early dawn, dew still sparkling the blades of grass into fairy towers. I lead him out across the meadow, and into the old barn that had once been my childhood fort. My Dad and I, we'd watched the stars from the roof, every summer of my youth. Up the stairs, and yes, the attic was just as I remembered it, the "music room" where I'd sawed away on the cello as a child when my playing was terrible, and that had later on served as the first rehearsal space for the band that would become Your Silent Face once Alison and I moved to Chicago. Brandon poked around, sticking his nose into crates and boxes.

"I wouldn't look too far into there, there's probably old lyric sheets, dreadful teenage poetry and the like lurking down there somewhere," I warned.

"That's an incentive, if anything," Brandon teased. But as I settled down, brushing the dust off my chair and extracting my cello from its case again, Brandon stopped being nosy and came and sat next to me, tuning up my old guitar.

"I warn you, I'm probably going to sound terrible."

"Well, you won't get any better if you don't play." Brandon grinned up at me from under his hair, his silver tooth glinting in the dawn light streaming in the tiny dormer window. "Practice makes perfect, as my old music teacher used to say."

"You took music lessons?" I gaped at Brandon in disbelief. "I thought you were a metaller, I thought it was all _from the heart_ with you."

"Every week for twelve years," Brandon admitted, pushing his hair back out of his face before picking out a familiar Mozart tune on the old guitar. "Classically trained, as they say."

"What did you play?"

"Piano." He stretched his long, elegant fingers and cracked his knuckles. "I begged my parents for a piano from the time I was six. It was the only thing I ever wanted to do, from when I was little - play music." He smiled at me shyly, then squirmed slightly. "What is it? Why are you staring at me like that?"

"I'm trying to imagine what you were like as a little kid."

"A pain in the ass."

"I somehow doubt that. I bet you were a little goody two-shoes. I bet you tucked in your shirttails and tattled on your little brothers and sisters when they misbehaved."

His face cracked into a tentative smile. "Well, I was the oldest boy. I always felt I had a certain obligation... to provide a good example for my younger siblings."

"You were the oldest?" I tried to picture Brandon as a six year old, but all I saw was a little boy with that same, serious set of the jaw.

"Second oldest. I have an older sister. But... when my Dad was away preaching, I had a responsibility to be the Man of the House. Keep my little brothers in line. It was a big responsibility, I took it pretty seriously. But I guess I was probably a bit of an asshole about it sometimes. You should ask Benj about it some time. I'm sure he'll tell you all kinds of stories about what an uptight square I was."

I laughed and drew my bow softly across the cello string. From the Instagrams, it was clear that Benjamin actually adored his older brother. "Maybe you still are, maybe that's why you get so tense at gigs, like you're still trying to keep Josh and me in line, like we're your little brothers and sisters and you've got to be the Man in the Band while Dad is away."

I had expected him to kick back, to protest, but he just smirked, as if he recognised it for the pigtail-pulling it was. "Maybe." He started to softly fingerpick a chord along with the note I was playing. "What about you? Are you an only child?"

"Me? No. I've got a little brother - five years younger than me - but he goes to grad school out in California."

"So you live in New York, and your brother lives in California - no wonder your Mom was so happy to have us stay with her."

"Look who's talking, Mister one brother in Texas, two brothers in New York and another in China."

"Yeah, well, we all try to get together at Thanksgiving, have a big family gathering, down in Dallas with my folks." He paused, letting a blue note ring out on the guitar for a moment. "You should come down with me this Thanksgiving, you'd love it. We all get together, have a massive blow-out party, all six of us, plus partners, kids, cousins, everybody. My Mom makes a killer pumpkin pie, all the fixin's and..." He stopped himself abruptly, like he realised he'd got carried away in his excitement. "I mean..." His eyelashes drooped to cover his eyes so I couldn't quite read his expression. "If you'd like to."

I held my breath, barely daring to breathe for fear I hadn't heard him right. Had he just invited me to meet his folks? As in, he wanted to weave me into the fabric of his family? Or was it just kindness, because my folks had taken him and Josh in? I exhaled, and drew my bow back in a flourish. "I'd like that. I'd like that a lot." And then I soared up into a melody on the cello before he could contradict me or take the opportunity away.

And we played, hesitantly at first, as he tried to get used to the new instrument, but he seemed to know me so well, anticipating my melodies, that he accompanied me effortlessly. The roles were reversed - he was picking out the chords now, supporting my tunes, my little melodies half remembered from Chopin and Bartok. And as we played, it all came back, all the emotions that I felt for him, the longing, the desire I'd been suppressing for so long. Why couldn't it _always_ be like it was when we were just mucking around, writing music together? Why couldn't he be the one that flirted with me, dirty danced with me to Prince jams and pretended to feel me up when my horrible ex-boyfriend came creeping around? Dammit, Brandon, why can't you be the one?

But eventually, our hunger, and more importantly, our desire for coffee overcame our need for music, and we packed up our instruments and crept back to the house, to find my Mom up and cooking pancakes for everyone. Moira was sitting at the foot of the table, her iPhone still in her hand, glaring at the lack of messages on the screen. For a moment, I pricked with annoyance, but then I just shrugged, filled with the bonhomie of making music, and went over and hugged her, peering over her shoulder to see if there were any messages at all from our touring party. But Moira frowned and turned her phone off before I could see.

"I guess he still hasn't texted, then," I observed. "Do we know when we're expected back, at all?"

"Tony has my number - I'll call him... but after we've had some pancakes." Brandon rubbed his hands together gleefully as he went up to my Mom and accepted a plate off her.

"Moooommmm..." I whined, seeing the cow butter on the table.

"Don't worry, sweetheart, I went to Wegman's first thing and picked up a carton of egg substitute. They're fine for you to eat." Ah. So she had remembered. I went over and gave my Mom and extra squeeze for being awesome, kissing her on the cheek.

Josh stopped mid-bite. "Hang on, these are _vegan_ pancakes?"

"They won't kill you," I laughed, giving his ponytail a tug as I walked by him. His pancakes were so swimming in butter and maple syrup I was surprised he could taste a thing. But Moira only picked at her food, moving the same half pancake round and round her plate as she compulsively checked her phone. Something was up with that girl, and on the next stretch of driving, I resolved to find out what. Brandon, however, frowned at her. They had never really got on, but Brandon was looking particularly disapproving of her today. Did he suspect her of something? Or was he annoyed about The Supermodel, too? Well, at least I knew _his_ reasons for being so protective of Jacinta.

Halfway through breakfast, Brandon's mobile rang, and we all jumped. "Yeah? Oh, hi, Tony. Yup, we're all out at Charley's folks' house, out in the wilds of Indiana. Sure... Oh, he has got back in touch with you?" Moira suddenly perked up at this news. "Well, it took just under an hour to get out here last night, when the roads were empty, so give us an hour and a half to get back there? Yup. OK, I'll see you soon, probably about noonish."

"Duty calls, I suppose," my Mom observed from the head of the table. "That's a shame, I thought we were going to get more time with you. But, I suppose, it's a blessing to have had this morning." I wanted to hug my Mom over and over - in fact, I wanted to bring her along on tour with us to cook for us and make sure that everyone was fed and happy. This was weird, I had never got on this well with my mother when we lived in the same state. I supposed time and distance really did have a way of making the heart grow fond.

And so my Mom loaded up the car again - my Dad said his goodbyes at the kitchen door, so that we had the extra space to take the cello with us - and drove us back to Chicago. Moira almost instantly disappeared into the bus to see if Paul had returned. The rest of my band said their fond goodbyes to my Mom, with lots of hugging and cheek-kissing and my Mom blushing and saying what handsome boys they were, then they politely left us to a private goodbye on the pavement. I hugged my Mom like I didn't want to let her go, and she laughed and stroked my hair, like I was a little girl. I'd needed that, so, so much.

"You love him, don't you?" she said, eventually. "Your dishy singer."

"Mom!" I protested, in a teenage screech, then relaxed. "How on earth can you tell?"

"I'm your mother."

"It doesn't matter, he doesn't love me back anyway."

"He does, you know," my Mom whispered in my ear. "He's so like your father, I know men like that. He loves you, he's just so guarded he's working out a way to tell you without scaring himself off."

"You can't possibly be right," I sighed, but my heart leapt in my chest anyway. "Love you, goodbye."

If I'd thought the atmosphere on the tourbus couldn't get any weirder, boy, was I wrong. I stowed my cello, then made my way inside. Brandon was at his typical place by the back of the bus but this time, Sam was beside him, and the two of them were listening intently to his laptop. Clearly, I was no longer the only person on the tour with a crush on Brandon. I waved to them, and Brandon leaned forwards to clear the seat opposite him to give me a place to sit down, but I shook my head then went upstairs looking for Moira. I stuck my head into the rear lounge - oh god, was that a mistake. Carlos and Daniel were seated opposite one another, arms folded, Carlos absolutely fuming and glaring at Daniel, and Daniel, uncharacteristic irritation showing on his pretty lips, chatting away to some journalist on his cellphone as if Carlos wasn't there, refusing to cede the interview to his more popular bandmate.

Right, try the front lounge. Josh was looking through the DVD collection, picking out Spanish art films as a couple of the crew members complained, asking him to find something without subtitles for a change. But Paul was sitting by himself, arms folded across his chest, with a deeply silly smile glazed across his mouth. Come to think of it, I didn't think I'd ever seen Paul smile like that before. He'd been a grumpy bastard since the tour began, but even back in NYC, flirting with me over Lloyd Cole, he'd kept a tight-lipped smile I'd come to think of as normal. But right now, Paul was smiling like a little boy. It made such a difference to his face - even his dimples had dimples, as Moira had once said - that I actually started to understand why Moira was so obsessed with him.

But Moira was nowhere to be seen. "Has anyone seen Daria?" I asked. "I seem to be missing a girl friend."

A cloud passed over Paul's sunny face. "No clue," he grumbled.

"Try the bunks, Jane Lane," Josh suggested helpfully, before being bullied into putting Charlie and the Chocolate Factory on - the Johnny Depp version I really loved. Shit, I wanted to watch my namesake! But no, I had a sulking best friend to worm secrets out of.

So I turned and made my way back to our bunk, and sure enough, found Moira lurking inside. I pulled myself up and shut the curtain, looking at her carefully as she hunched over her iPad, flicking through the messageboards of IndieGossipSite. "What is up? Are you planning on ever telling me?"

Moira glanced up at me, her face troubled. "Isn't it obvious? Charley, I'm losing him."

I thought it diplomatic not to point out that he wasn't hers in the first place. "Have you forgotten that you are actually here as a correspondent for Rolling Stone Magazine, not to flirt with Paul."

"Well, I am here to keep an eye on him. I promised Jacinta..."

"What?" My head reeled. "You promised Jacinta you'd spend the entire tour closeted up with her boyfriend?"

"Don't be fucking naive, Charley. Jacinta knows about my fling with Paul. You might say I'm... I'm _approved_."

"What?" My head reeled. I couldn't keep up with this. "Wait, so you _have_ been sleeping with Paul? This whole tour? And you didn't think to tell me? Am I a fucking idiot?"

"If I told you, it would go straight back to Brandon, and he acts like he hates me enough already. If he knew about..." Her voice trailed off. I could see from her eyes that it was me she didn't trust, not Brandon.

"Brandon isn't funny about Paul, he's funny about Jacinta. You know they used to date, and it was a disaster. He doesn't hold a candle, he's burned down the village." I paused as I looked at her, and an odd notion took hold in my mind. "What do you mean _approved_ , anyway? How does she know about you and Paul?"

Moira sighed deeply and shifted uncomfortably in the tiny compartment. "God, you really _are_ that naive. The first couple times we did it, it was all three of us. Me, Jacinta and Paul. I mean, christ, do you really think that if I get an invitation to go to bed with the two most beautiful people I know..."

I felt like I was looking at Moira down the wrong end of a telescope, and the perspective was just collapsing in on itself. Like this woman I thought was my best friend, that I'd known for years, had lived with for six months, that she was turning into someone I didn't even know. "When did this start?" I stuttered. "How long has this been going on?"

"The first time? After you and Brandon left the dinner party. Everybody thought you two were going home to screw, so Jacinta suggested I stay over. I didn't know she had plans of her own..." She laughed gaily, then her expression changed. "Oh god, don't look at me like that, Charley. I knew you'd be weird about it, you Midwesterners are always so uptight. So I'm bi. Don't freak, it doesn't mean that I'm going to leap on you in your sleep. It's just... Paul and Jacinta? At once? Are you kidding? What _idiot_ would say no to that?"

I stared at her. "Look, Moira, I am not that naive. I don't care if you fuck men, women, or transgender aliens. But getting into a threesome with a long-term couple, and then being appointed personal guardian of the dude's straying cock while he's on tour... That doesn't strike you as a _bit_ fucked up?"

Moira bit her lip as she stared at me resentfully. "I knew you wouldn't get it."

"I _get_ it. I just wonder what's in it for you, like, is Jacinta's snatch really worth that much to either of you, if he keeps putting it about on tour?"

"You're a fucking bitch. You know that?" she spat, and I instantly knew I'd gone too far. "And also, you're a raging hypocrite." Turning her iPad around, she showed me the front page of indiegossipsite.com and there was another photo of me and Daniel, backstage in Chicago, all tangled together, his hands in my back pockets, my hands in his hair. As I had bent down to kiss the top of his head, his face had crushed against my chest, and from the look on his face, it was very clear he had been enjoying the view of my breasts even more from up close, his lips parting on either side of my all-too-visible nipple.

"Oh shit." I stared at the photo as Moira read the text aloud.

"The backstage action on the Interpol / Secret Machines tour was hotting up in Chicago, reports a source close to both bands, who witnessed the pair engaged in a bit of pre-gig canoodling in the wings of the stage. Daniel Kessler, guitarist for Interpol, asked to have the backstage area cleared so that he could get more than a bit closer to current TSM guitarist, indie heartthrob Charley Wildwood. The chemistry between the two bands is sizzling onstage, and apparently even more steamy offstage. See them on tour now... and then a string of upcoming dates."

"Chris," I snarled. Only one person could have witnessed that interaction - and he must have been seething if Carlos had, as expected, exploded at him. Was this his revenge? "We were play-acting, to try and fuck with Chris's head, get.. well, some kind of revenge. It's complicated. Yes, we were making out. Sort of. Or at least pretending to. But only to make Chris jealous."

"It doesn't look like play-acting, the way you two flirt at soundcheck, _indie heartthrob_."

"Look," I insisted. "It's flirtation, and that's it. You know who I love." My voice cracked, and I didn't entirely believe myself. "And fuck off with the indie heartthrob shit. If you're a girl, why do they always have to turn you into a sex symbol instead of a musician?"

"You can fool yourself, but you can't fool your friends," she told me in a sing-song voice.

"No," I retorted. "Fooling friends is clearly your department." And with that, I pulled back the curtain and rolled out of the bunk.

I went downstairs, made myself a soothing cup of coffee - with Carlos' non-dairy creamer, but you know, fuck _him,_ he'd drunk the last of my Rice Dream and not even replaced it - and padded towards the back of the bus to sit opposite Brandon and Sam as they talked about doom metal and heavy drone. Sitting downstairs, in the crew lounge with Brandon, it was always a refuge, he always had a smile for me, and usually an earphone of his MP3 player for me as well.

After the glory of the Chicago gig, the Milwaukee gig was one of the more tense shows we'd done, where we never quite seemed to take off. I was distracted, I missed cues, and barely managed to cover for it. Brandon didn't look angry, but he did look concerned, the scowl of worry twisting his handsome features making me feel more guilty than if he'd just got mad at me and kicked up a fuss. Moira and Paul, at least, seemed to patch up, as they disappeared after the gig, and she didn't come back to my bunk that night. There was no waiting around in Milwaukee after the gig - we faced a long overnight drive to Minneapolis, and even Carlos couldn't persuade a 'companion' to come with him. With him skulking off to bed by himself, the rest of us gathered in the back lounge for a change, Sam setting up his laptop and me and Brandon and him sitting watching YouTubes of metal bands and weird British occult shit.

Daniel stuck his head in, and looked like he was about to say something, when he noticed Brandon. "Oh, you're not alone."

"Nah, it's fine. You can come and watch Quatermass and the Pit with us if you like," I shrugged, moving over towards Brandon to make room for him.

"I'll pass. Really, I just wanted to warn you. Um... on the internet..." he mumbled.

"If this is about IndieGossipSite.com, I already know." I rolled my eyes and tried to laugh as if it was no big deal, Daniel sucking my nipples on the front page of the internet.

"Already know what?" Brandon demanded, looking annoyed at being left out of the joke. "What now?"

"Oh. Apparently, Daniel and I are having a tawdry affair for the duration of this tour." If I made a joke out of it, maybe Brandon wouldn't catch on about my mixed feelings.

"Are you?" Brandon was smiling and raising one eyebrow, he wasn't upset. "When do you have the time?"

"Of course not!" I protested, just as Daniel said "Yes, absolutely filthy, how can you stand to be in the same room as the force of our explosive indie heartthrob sexuality?" And then we looked at each other and suddenly both collapsed into giggles. Daniel and me - it was a joke! Clearly, the very idea of it was absurd, to everyone, including both of us.

Brandon looked mystified, but Sam held out his arms. "Ooh, I'm getting tingles. Even I want to have sex with you now, Dan."

"We're not up to anything, Sam, I swear," I insisted. "We just got drunk and dirty danced to Prince jams. Someone got a picture that looks kinda... suggestive." I watched Brandon's face carefully for a reaction, but there was still none. Did I actually want him to be jealous over this? There was a part of me that wanted to shout at him, say look, little Dan Kessler is sucking my tits all over the internet, do you really have _nothing_ to say about that?

"Phew, man!" Sam shook his head slowly. "Prince jams could make anyone have sex with anything! Even furniture! I start humping table legs when someone puts Prince on. You know like when the giant pandas are dying out in extinction because they won't have any more babies? They should just play them Prince jams and the whole world would be covered in giant panda babies having giant panda sex orgies."

Daniel finally decided to come into the room properly, and settle down on the sofa next to me. "What the hell are you lot watching?"

"We're conducting experiments in terror. The three of us have decided to start a side project playing extreme black doom metal," Brandon explained.

"Drone noize terror," Sam corrected. "With bongo solos."

"With me on cello, and Prince jams on the Linn Drums," I added.

"No!" protested Daniel. "Don't you want to save that for our side project? We can do Lloyd Cole songs in the style of Prince and Prince songs in the style of Lloyd Cole."

"And then, me and Carlos are starting an all-bass Peter Hook covers band called Bass Division," Brandon giggled.

"And then me and Paul and Josh will do a post-punk white boy ska band called The Secret Police," I countered, and we all started to laugh, the nipple incident completely forgotten.

"Is everyone on this tour in a side project with everyone else, except me?" Daniel whined.

"Yup. Looks like it."

"I want a side project! Won't you be in my side project, Charley?" He turned his pale golden-brown eyes towards me and I felt an odd shiver go down my spine.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And this is where everything comes to a head, in the penultimate chapter.
> 
> -Kessler gets up the nerve to make an actual move on Charley  
> -The Moira-Paul-Jacinta triangle explodes over The Supermodel  
> -Charley *finally* figures out why Brandon dumped her

We crossed the Mississippi at some point in the night, and woke in Minneapolis. This far North, the sun seemed slightly slanted, but the weather was warm enough. The fractures of Chicago seemed far behind us, as the bands and crew all convened for breakfast at Denny's, though I did note that Carlos kept his distance from the rest of his band, especially Paul, and sat at the other end of the table, with the crew, but not actually talking to them. I sat between Brandon and Daniel, my two favourite boys on earth, and let them gobble the scrambled eggs from my vegetarian breakfast. After a couple of weeks on the road, it was nice, comfortable, how we'd gelled into a single touring unit. I knew there were stories of bands that utterly fell out on the road, or headlining bands that took great pleasure out of hazing and torturing their support acts, but we actually felt, oddly, like a big family - even with the sulking goth cousin at the end of the table.

Moira and Paul, of course, disappeared after breakfast, claiming that they wanted to go sight-seeing, but I rather suspected that the only sight Moira would see was the ceiling of Paul's hotel room. Daniel and I both insisted that we wanted to go to Paisley Park, and at least stare at the studio from outside the gates like the musical tourists we were. 

"You're wasting your time," Tony insisted as we started trying to look it up on the internet. "They don't do public tours, you won't get in."

"Even if you ring up and say that Interpol would like to come and visit?" Daniel pestered.

"As if Prince would even know who Interpol are," Carlos snorted.

Daniel shot him a wounded expression. "You never know."

"Maybe Brandon can call up his pal David Bowie and have him have a word with Prince to let us in," I teased, but as I looked around to catch Brandon's long-suffering eyeroll at the teasing, I realised he had gone already.

"Oh, sorry. Did I forget to tell you?" Carlos drawled. " _Boyfriend_ has gone off with our drummer to go and check out a video installation at the Walker Arts Centre. Oops, my bad."

I glared at Carlos. For a moment, I felt almost hurt that Brandon hadn't even thought to invite me along with them. But it would be completely in keeping with Brandon's weirdness, that he would pull away right after the intensity of our intimacy back at my parents' house. He always seemed to do that, to withdraw from me, right when I thought we were getting really close again. Then again, given the way that Sam's and Brandon's bromance seemed to be developing, maybe it was Sam that didn't want me tagging along. At some point along the tour, it had changed from 'Brandon will you be in my imaginary band' to 'Brandon will you produce my solo record' and Brandon was hooked. But then I noticed Carlos' turn of phrase and the odious way he was smirking at me, and prickled. "He's not my _boyfriend_. And even if I were his girlfriend, I'd... I'd..." I didn't even know what point I was trying to make, I was just irritated. And not entirely at Carlos.

Daniel started to sing, throwing in a couple of fancy dance moves with his hips. "If I was your girlfriend, would you remember? To tell me all the things you forgot when I was your man?" He dipped his head coquettishly then batted his eyelashes up at me. "Come on, Char-o-lotta. Let's go find Prince."

We tried to find a train out to Chanhassen by ourselves, but as we got to the station, we found out that the journey was much longer than we had expected, and I fussed about getting back in time for soundcheck. But Daniel persisted, and even bought me a cup of coffee and a pastry as a bribe, and off we went on the next train.

Granted, Paisley Park was a bit of a let-down after all the build-up, as we couldn't even get anywhere near the complex, let alone inside, and the whole thing was surrounded by a ten foot chain link fence, but still, we had fun wandering about. It was worth it, just knowing that wherever we tread, Prince had probably trodden there once, too. We took pictures of each other in front of the sign, then Daniel put his arm around me, pulled me closer, and held up his camera to snap a shot of us there together, mugging for the camera and pretending to be Wendy & Lisa.

"You should put that on your Instagram - or better yet, submit it to IndieGossipSite anonymously and claim we've eloped," I teased.

For a second, Daniel looked tempted, and his finger hovered over the "send" button, but then he shook his head and relented. "No, that would be flaunting, and we very specifically have an agreement against flaunting."

"Flaunting?" I asked, then decided I didn't really want to know. 

"Can you submit a photo anonymously to IGS... I wonder if they have an upload facility... oh god they do. Should I do it?" he looked up at me expectantly.

"Do it, tell them we're the new Wendy & Lisa, that you've gone lesbian for me." If we got that outrageous, they couldn't possibly take it seriously.

Daniel hit the submit button, then looked up at me, his mouth all smiles but his eyes all trepidation. "We really shouldn't lead people on like this."

We shouldn't lead each other on like this, I thought to myself, and walked off without waiting for him. As we hiked on, circling the complex on foot, I realised that this was the longest time we'd ever spent together, just the two of us, outside of a band context. Well, apart from running, but we were usually too out of breath to talk much. And on his own, away from the band, he was sweet, he was genuinely lovely, a kind of old world charming that spoke of respect rather than patronisation. He held doors for me, he bought me cups of coffee on the train, he even reached out and took my hand carefully when we got lost and had to climb over a short stone wall to get out of a cul de sac. But he did it not in a way that implied I needed or even wanted help - but in a way that made it obvious that he was purposefully being charming in an effort to make me feel like an attractive woman. And it worked. I found myself _charmed_ by him.

So as we walked on, around past a part of the complex that appeared to be a hotel, it amused rather than insulted me when he raised his eyebrows and gave me a slightly sheepish leer as he leant back against a high brick wall. "You know, if we were having the kind of tawdry affair that IndieGossipSite thinks we're having, we would be checking into that hotel so we could both be flying Prince Airlines together..."

I held Daniel's gaze just a little too long, and smirked back. "You know, if I were _going_ to have a tawdry affair with you, a hotel at Paisley Park would be the exact place that I would consummate it."

Daniel laughed, a little nervously, and there was actual fear in his soft, golden eyes as he looked back at me. I started to move on, but he caught me by the hand and pulled me back towards him. "I'd really like to kiss you right now." For a moment, we stood looking at one another, as I saw his eyes slide down my face, looking at my lips, then he put his hand on the small of my back and pulled me towards him, crushing my body against his as he had to lean up on his tip-toes to kiss me.

The kiss caught me by surprise, his cupid's bow lips rather hard against mine. For a second, I just panicked, but then I relaxed into the kiss, letting my lips open as his tongue slipped into my mouth. This was OK. This was kinda nice actually. Alright, it wasn't quite as feel-it-down-in-the-tip-of-my-toes the-earth-moved as my first kiss with Brandon. But still. Being kissed, outside Paisley Park, by Daniel Kessler, I could get used to this. But then I realised I had been overthinking it, and not actually responding to the kiss at all, and tried to stop my whirling thoughts and just kiss him back, but he was already pulling away.

"Wow," he said.

"Wow," I replied, leaning back against the wall and trying to hunker down so I didn't feel so much obviously taller than him in my stack-heeled motorcycle boots. I'd never had to pretend not to be tall, with Brandon. He shifted slightly, wrapped both of his arms around my waist, pulling me towards him and just holding me against his body.

"I've been wondering for so long what it would be like to kiss you, and now I know," Daniel said, still looking at my lips as if kissing me hadn't answered the question at all. "You're... wow, you're dangerous."

"I'm really not, you know." Why were all these boys so afraid of me? It reminded me of that odd thing that Brandon had said. _Terrifyingly amazing_.

"No, I mean, _this_. You and me. This could be dangerous."

I shook my head and laughed a bit. "What, just a little tour fling? I thought you had an arrangement, that you were allowed tour flings. The occasional blowjob off a Quebecois conceptual artist. A meaningless sex thing with the guitarist from your support band." Leaning forward, I kissed him again, pushing my tongue into his mouth and running it all along the back of his teeth like an invitation, but he pulled away again.

"Oh, Christ, you have no idea how tempted I am. Feel how tempted I am." He pulled me closer, until I could feel something in his trousers straining against me. Oh come on, Daniel, don't do this. Don't rub your cock against me to tell me how horny you are, then take it away. "But this is a really bad idea."

"Why?" I followed his body with my hips, grinding against him until he started to move against me in response, his hips making a mockery of what his mouth was saying. "Look, I don't want a big massive thing. But you and I, we get on. Would it really be so bad if we had sex, you know, once or twice, on a casual basis, while we're bored, on tour?"

"But that's just the thing, Charley." His hands slid down, coming to rest on my ass, his fingers pushing into the back pockets of my trousers again. He was so small and thin, his body felt odd against mine, light and insubstantial compared to the reassuring solidity of Brandon. "Would this really _be_ casual?"

"That's all I want," I shrugged. Why was his mouth saying no when his body was so clearly saying yes, pushing against mine urgently?

"I don't _do_ casual," Daniel insisted. "I only do perfect."

"So let's do something perfectly casual. Just sex, no entanglements, no complications. That's all I want."

"I don't know if that's all I would want," he suddenly confessed. "We like all the same stuff. You're in my social circle, my friend group, you're starting side projects with people in my band. We're... entwined. I would want a life with you. A perfect life, with you as my perfect dream-girlfriend. I would want to play basketball with you every Saturday morning, go running in Central Park. I would want to start a band with you, and write songs about how much we like fucking one another that make people totally jealous of great we were in bed together and in a band together, and just... in life together. I wouldn't want just a tour fling. I would want..." His voice trailed off into a whistle, even as I leaned back against the fence, and his body slipped into the gap between my legs. "I would want the entanglements and the complications. I would want the real thing."

"That's not fair." No, this wasn't on. This echoed exactly what Brandon had said to me, once upon a time. What was it with these fucking rock boys, who didn't want to fuck me because they respected me too much as a musician?

"No, it's not fair. I would have to break up with my girlfriend, I would have to totally turn my perfect life upside down, to be with you." My legs parted wider as he rubbed up against me, dry humping me through his clothes. If there were not two pairs of trousers between us, he would be inside me.

"Whoa there, slow down. You would nothing of the sort. I just want a fling. I'm hardly perfect, and I would never make anyone a perfect girlfriend. I'm just horny, and frustrated, and I would just like to have sex. That's it. Just sex."

"I wouldn't. I would want to fall in love with you." He kissed me again, his tongue hard and forceful as he thrust it into my mouth, but abruptly he withdrew. "And that's the problem, isn't it? I would want you to be in love with me, too. And you're in love with Brandon."

"Whoa!" I pushed him back at the shoulders, and this time he shifted his weight off me, and pulled away, trying to regain control over himself, running his fingers through his hair and rearranging his trousers to hide the tenting. "I'm not in love with Brandon," I lied.

"I think we both know you are, though only one of us will admit it." He was really trying to get a grip on himself now, pacing back and forth in front of me. "Look, I don't blame you. Brandon's one of my best friends, he's amazing. Everyone in Interpol is a little bit in love with Brandon. If _I_ were a girl, I'd totally go out with him. He's a true gentleman."

"Brandon's not in love with me," I said limply, feeling suddenly rather cheap and dirty for throwing myself at Daniel like that. Wait, no, he'd come on to me. He just hadn't had the guts to go through with it. "And that's the _real_ problem."

Daniel turned back to me with a disbelieving expression. "Oh, but he is. He's been in love with you since your first audition." The confidence with which he proclaimed this unnerved me. Why did everyone but me and Brandon keep insisting this?

"And how do you know?" I spat.

"He said so."

"When?" My head spun. How could he go from grinding me against the wall, to telling me that the man of my dreams was in love with me, in the space of two minutes flat?

"Quite early on, maybe before you even joined his band. Paul was teasing him about you, the day after your audition, when Brandon wouldn't shut up about you and how great you were. Paul kept saying, 'listen, you either have to ask that girl to join your band, or ask that girl to marry you. You're besotted with her,' and Brandon, he didn't deny it at all, he just sat there grinning with that silly chipmunk-faced grin of his."

"Not denying something is not the same as admitting it." My head spun. They'd discussed me, back before I joined the band? So was that why I'd been invited to dinner? But something had happened at that dinner, that made Brandon start blowing hot and cold on me.

"He said, and this is not an exact quote because I don't remember his words, we were drinking in a bar down on Ludlow. But he said something to the effect of, 'yeah, I could see that, being married to a chick like that, that would be pretty sweet.'" Daniel slumped back against the wall next to me, only a few inches away, but not quite touching. "And he has _never_ stopped having that expression on his face, every time he looks at you, that he had, that day on the lower east side when he said he wanted to marry you."

Brandon. So besotted with me that he joked about marrying me? It took my breath away, just thinking about it. Being married to a guy like Brandon? That guy who bought me records, downloaded concerts he thought I might like, dug wistfully through my childhood memories at my parents' house, and supported my melodies with his complimentary basslines, onstage and off? Sweet didn't even begin to cover it. I'd marry Brandon in a heartbeat. Me, who said she would never be pinned down by any boy. I wanted to captured, pinned down, claimed completely by Brandon. _I_ wanted the complications and the entanglements, with Brandon. But what had _happened_? How had I blown it? "I also fell in love with Brandon at that first audition. I have loved him ever since," I confessed, my knees buckling. "So why can't we seem to get it together?" All thoughts of fucking Daniel had gone completely out of my head now. He was right, it wasn't fair to treat him as a consolation prize.

Daniel turned away from me, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, and I saw some odd light go out of his eyes. But then he shrugged lightly and turned back to me, his chirpy grin restored, as if the entire thing with the kissing, and grinding me up against a wall, and telling me he wanted to leave his girlfriend for me - as if that had never happened. I didn't quite trust a man who could turn his emotions on and off like that. "Look, let me tell you something of what Brandon is like. Because sometimes you really have to convince him to do whatever it is you both want him to do, because he is forever second-guessing himself and everyone around him." He paused, digging in his jacket pockets for something. "Fuck, I can't believe, at times like this, that I gave up smoking."

"We all smoke, second hand, just being in that bus. Sam and Carlos are like fucking smoke stacks," I sighed.

That jogged something in Daniel's memory. "Here is a perfect example of Brandon Logic. We have asked Brandon to join Interpol half a dozen times..."

"Doing what?"

"Playing bass," Daniel shrugged, as if it were obvious.

"But..."

"Carlos has threatened to quit, at least a dozen times more, over the past year and a half. He skips sessions, he doesn't turn up to rehearsal, we didn't even know for certain if he was going to come on this tour, until he actually turned up."

I just looked at him, gobsmacked. "This is the first I've heard of it."

"I think this is the one thing that's kept him on this tour - he's afraid to start in with his usual ' _I'm going to leave_ ' crap with a journalist from Rolling Stone eavesdropping on every conversation. He thinks it would finish the band, he thinks he's too big for us to let him go. But he's wrong. I have rung up Brandon at least half a dozen times, and asked him to join - he's even been to rehearsal with us once or twice, he's been in the studio with us, he knows some of the new songs better than Carlos does. But when we asked him to join, do you know what he said?"

"No." I had a feeling I knew, though.

"He said he couldn't do that to Carlos. Not 'I'm sorry but I'm busy with my own stuff' - not even 'sorry but I'm finally getting Secret Machines off the ground again' but that he couldn't do that to Carlos. Be the person that kicked him out of his own band. That Carlos had to make his own decision to quit, before he'd even consider taking over."

"That's one of Brandon's great strengths. He's really pretty loyal."

"Carlos is an _asshole_. Fuck, he's my best friend, I've known him since I was a freshman in college, but he's a total fucking asshole. He would stab Brandon in the back in a heartbeat, if the roles were reversed. But... well, don't tell Brandon this, but that's why we invited you guys on this tour as support band. We knew Carlos was likely to start up his shit again, so I wanted Brandon along on the tour to see the shit he pulls - and to be here if he walks out again."

I stared at Daniel, feeling my blood suddenly run cold. "Don't tell Brandon - what do you mean? You mean you haven't told him why we're on this tour?"

"Oh come on, don't put it like that. You make it sound so underhanded."

"That's not how I put it, that's how you put it."

"Yeah, but Brandon wouldn't have agreed to come if we'd told him like that."

"You don't think that sounds at all underhanded?" I challenged.

"Nah, come on." Daniel hand-waved dismissively. "That's just... band politics. Being pragmatic. I mean, after all... it is _my_ band. I'm not the asshole here."

I wrapped my arms around my own waist, feeling oddly cold. How weird, I'd once had a conversation where I'd accused Brandon of being an asshole. But the thing about Brandon was, he never denied it. When he'd done something he was ashamed of, or couldn't defend, he freely admitted that he was wrong, that he was an asshole. Here was Daniel, being just as much of an underhanded asshole as he had just accused Carlos of being - and yet he was so concerned with looking like the Good Guy that he couldn't even admit the bad in what he was doing.

"You're right," I conceded. "This... me and you, this would be a really bad idea."

"Christ, don't I know it." He paused, a heartbeat of comic timing. "I wish you could convince my cock, though."

I laughed, the tension broken. "Come on, we should get back to the station or you're going to miss your soundcheck. Where's the bus stop to get back to the train station?"

"Paisley Park," sighed Daniel as we walked away. "Shit, I am going to spend the rest of the tour regretting this decision, aren't I? Maybe the rest of my life?"

"I don't think so," I said quietly, almost under my breath.

\-----

We got back to the theatre twenty minutes late for soundcheck, so that Daniel had to run straight up onto the stage as soon as we arrived, fielding off prying looks from half his bandmates. I made my way backstage and saw Brandon sitting by himself, the complete works of Marcus Aurelius open on his lap in front of him. Walking up behind him, I put my arms around him from behind, and squeezed, gently, then left a kiss on the side of his cheek.

"What was that for?" he asked, surprised, but seemingly pleased.

"I called you an asshole once or twice, a few months ago. I was wrong. You're actually an incredibly loyal and decent human being."

"No, you were probably right, I was probably being an asshole. I'm certainly capable of being one. I just... I always feel the weight, the responsibility of setting a good example. So I try really hard not to be an asshole, but admit it when I am."

"It's that, that makes all the difference." I left another kiss on his opposite cheek, then walked away.

Brandon turned around in his chair to watch me as I gathered up my things. "I guess Paisley Park was really great, if you're in such a good mood."

"Nah, actually Paisley Park was shit, we couldn't even find our way in."

"Or maybe Daniel was really great," he teased. "Indie sex on legs, is it?"

"Nah. Daniel's really charming, sure, but I don't trust him farther than I could spit a rat."

Brandon let out a dry laugh. "I think I told you that once, but you decided not to listen to me."

"You..." But instead of swearing at him, I just rolled my eyes, humped my bag over my shoulder and went out to watch Interpol soundcheck.

But on my way to the stage, I ran into a rather flustered Tony, barrelling down the corridor in the opposite direction. "Sorry, Charley! Didn't see you! Shit, no, sorry, Jac, I am listening to you. You're where? Minneapolis-St Paul International Airport? What the fuck are you doing there? Look, no, I cannot come out and pick you up, I have a show to run. And no, I will not send Paul out to fetch you, he has a soundcheck to finish." I tried not to eavesdrop, but the voice on the other end of the phone was so angry I couldn't help but overhear. "Look, Jac, I tell you what. Get yourself a taxi to the venue, I'll leave some money in an envelope with your ticket and a backstage pass. Alright? Alright." As he hung up, he saw that I was still watching him. "Shit, this is the part of the job I really fucking hate. Juggling spoiled rock stars' fucking girlfriends. How many girlfriends does this Paul Banks guy actually have? This is the third one this week."

I should have gone back to the bus. I should at least have gone to warn Moira, even if not Paul. But I didn't. Maybe there was a part of me that didn't believe Moira, and wanted her to get caught out. Maybe I was just done trying to prevent other people from making their own mistakes, when I couldn't even help myself. But either way, I sighed, then shrugged, then continued on my way to the stage to check my guitars.

It was an ordinary soundcheck. Daniel played the riff from Let's Go Crazy at me, then I played the riff from from Raspberry Beret back at him. Brandon was in a good mood, screwing about on the Rhodes playfully and tossing jokes back and forth with Josh. I mostly just felt a wave of fellow-feeling towards my bandmates, like I couldn't have asked for two better men to share my days with. We'd forgotten the tequila ritual before gigs the past few nights, but tonight I thought it was my turn to revive it, and buy them both shots at the bar.

But as I walked back to the bus to fetch a change of clothes before I went onstage, I became aware of an altercation upstairs. Brandon was beside me as I opened the downstairs door, and we heard shouting from the front lounge, though I can't even remember why he came with me. The shouting was high-pitched, female. Jacinta? Brandon and I exchanged worried glances then ran up the stairs, me two steps behind him. The first thing I saw was two women, apparently wrestling. The one on top was fully clothed and had dark hair, the one underneath was strawberry blonde and seemed to only be half-dressed.

"Jesus, Jackie, let her go!" Brandon shouted, grabbing her around the waist and pulling her off... Moira. The half-naked blonde was my own best friend.

Moira, whimpering, tried to pull up her dress, and moved backwards towards Paul, also in a similar state of undress, but he shrugged her off roughly.

"You fucking cow!" snarled Jacinta, straining at Brandon's grip. "I told you to keep an eye on him! And I have to find out about his new supermodel girlfriend from indiegossipsite.com? Let me go, Brandon, I'll fucking have her..."

"No way," said Brandon, rather too calmly for the situation. "Charley, please, can you take your girlfriend downstairs... and fetch Tony. Please."

"No," insisted Moira, trying to cling to Paul, even as he was trying to push her away, digging in his abandonned suit jacket for a pack of cigarettes. "Paul... are you just going to stand back and watch her..."

"No, Moira, he's right. I think you should go." Paul did not sound calm, though he was clearly trying to. He sounded quite rattled.

"Paul, please..."

"In fact, I think you should also go and find Tony, and ask him to book you a flight home. I think your services are no longer required on this tour," Paul insisted, his voice shaking.

Jacinta smiled in triumph, and tried to shake Brandon off. "Get your things and go, Moira. It's over. You're sacked."

With shaking fingers, Paul managed to locate his cigarettes and light one. We watched in silence as Moira ran to our bunk, and started to throw her shit into a bag. I wanted to go to her, to help her, but I felt rooted to the spot. I had warned her about this, just yesterday, sitting in that very bunk, but she had chosen not to listen. "Actually, come to think of it, you, too, Jacinta," Paul finally added.

"What?" she spat.

"I presume you purchased a round trip ticket? Well, I think you better move the return trip up and go home, as well."

"You're sending me home?" Jacinta asked, in complete disbelief.

"No, Jacinta, I'm breaking up with you," Paul said, very quietly. "I asked you, please, to never visit me unannounced on tour. I said I could not deal with any more of your little scenes, when I am trying to work. Now I want you to go, and go now."

"You cannot be serious!" She faced him down, as Brandon let her go, at least now he was no longer afraid that she would go after Moira, as Paul was her objective.

"As serious as your life." He didn't even flinch, even as she got right up in his face. "I want you gone."

"You can kiss your apartment goodbye. And you can kiss your fancy clothes, and your records, and your books..."

"Fine." Paul let loose a plume of smoke from his thin lips. "So I lose some clothes, and I lose a couple of records, maybe even my old acoustic guitar. My really valuable stuff - my guitar collection - whatever isn't on tour with me is safe in a lockup where you'll never find it, so don't even try, Jacinta. You can't touch me any more."

"I'm not leaving without a fight," Jacinta insisted. "It's this new supermodel, isn't it? That was never part of the _agreement_ , you falling in love."

"Maybe it is, and maybe it isn't. Or maybe she taught me that I deserve more from a relationship than what leftovers you ever gave me."

"Leftovers?" gasped Jacinta. "I gave you whatever you wanted, in this relationship. I gave you your freedom, as much as you wanted. That was the agreement."

"No, you didn't. You took whatever you wanted, in this relationship. It was always all about _your_ freedom. Not mine. And I'm sick of that bargain. I suspected... but I had no proof, that you were behind Moira's plan to come on this tour, keep tabs on me. And you just confirmed it for me. So thanks for that."

Jacinta sank down to her knees on the sofa next to him, and Brandon touched me gently on the shoulder. "We should leave them to it," he whispered, and pulled me away. I walked back, past the bunks, and hesitated outside the bunk I'd shared with Moira. For a moment, I stood by it, wondering if I should say something, anything, to Moira. I'll see you back in NYC? I'm sorry but I told you so? But I couldn't make my hand move to twitch back that curtain.

"Are you alright?" Brandon whispered softly.

"Yes!" Why on earth wouldn't I be?

Brandon looked at me with almost infinite pain in his bruised eyes, opened his mouth as if to speak, then shook his head and fled down the stairs. What the living fuck? Oh, shit, of course. Jacinta was his ex, too. He had to be upset about this. I looked at the curtain behind which Moira was packing, then I looked down the stairs. Which one of them was even my best friend any more? It felt like I had just learned the hard way, that everyone I'd decided to trust was actually a self-centered asshole, and the one man I'd once decided never to trust again was the only person I could rely on. So I took a deep breath, and decided that right now, of the two, Brandon's claim on my attention was more urgent.

I dropped down the stairs after him, and found him sitting at his customary table at the back of the bus, staring out the window with an expression of blank pain. "Hey," I announced, sitting down next to him, but he didn't even move to give me space. "What is up with you? Is it Jacinta?"

He turned his head to face me slowly, his lips quivering as if he couldn't even bring himself to give voice to his fears. "Jacinta? What about _Moira_? Are you not even angry with her?"

"Well..." I shrugged helplessly. "I guess I was kinda angry yesterday, when I first found out about her and those two, but I'm over it. She made her bed, she has to lie in it."

"You _knew_?" Brandon's face was a perfect O of disbelief.

"Well, yeah. Since yesterday, at least. But... what can I do? She's gonna do what she does, who am I to stop her?"

Brandon looked like he was about to cry, as if his heart was breaking. "She... she treats you so badly, and you just put up with it. You deserve so much more, you deserve so much better. I would treat you like a queen, if you were _my_ girlfriend... But you keep choosing her over me?"

" _What_?" I stared at him, my face a mirror of his own disbelief. A tiny prickle started in the back of my mind, throwing all his actions of the past six months into a different light, but I tried to push it away. "Brandon, you broke up with me, remember?"

"You _chose_ her over me," he insisted, his eyes wild. "See, even Paul, who has the self regard of an elephant, he can't take being the woman he love's 'bit on the side' forever. And you think me, who has the self esteem of a gnat, you think that I could play second fiddle to you and your _girlfriend_?"

No! There was no way he actually thought what he seemed to be saying. "Girlfriend?" I asked, barely comprehending his deeper meaning. "Moira is my girl friend. My friend who is a girl. Not... oh my god." The light suddenly dawned. Chasing Amy. The kind offers to let Moira and I share a bed. He honestly thought that... "Oh my god," I repeated. I couldn't help myself, I just started to laugh, remembering how his face had fallen that first night, as he'd walked across Paul's flat to greet us and seen me and Moira standing there, me in a suit, her in a ballgown, clinging onto my hand like a besotted teengirl, because she'd just been slain by Paul's dimples. "Oh my god, Brandon, you complete fucking idiot."


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With all of the misunderstandings out of the way, can Brandon and Charley, finally, get it together?

"What?" Brandon looked about panicked, but could not understand the source of my mirth as I collapsed with laughter. "Why am I an idiot? What are you laughing at? How can you laugh at a time like this?"

"How can I do anything but laugh? You actually thought I was a _lesbian_?"

"Well, I guess I realised you were bisexual after you got drunk and slept with me..." He blushed copiously at the memory of that. "But it was obvious. The suits. The Judo. The sensible shoes. The Andrea Dworkin books and Ani Di Franco records in your bookshelves!"

"Oh my god, those are Moira's." I started laughing harder, with my hands over my mouth. Actually, it looked like I was the fucking idiot for not realising that she was bisexual all along. "Listen, Brandon. Look at me. I swear to god, I have never even so much as kissed Moira, let alone been in a relationship with her. I am straight." I paused, trying to collect myself. "And single. Very much single." Thank fuck for that, I thought, remembering how close I'd come to not being, that afternoon at Paisley Park.

Brandon looked at me as if he couldn't comprehend what he was hearing. "You're... straight." He stared, the light of hope suddenly catching fire in his eyes as he realised what I was telling him. "And you're... _available_?" I nodded, though I didn't trust my tongue not to leap out of my mouth and ram itself down his throat. "Available to me?"

"Was the whole getting naked and climbing on top of you thing not enough of a clue, that I was not just available but _interested_ in you?" I could not believe I was really having this conversation.

"Oh my god, I have been such an idiot!" He turned and stared out the window for a moment, as if trying to process this new information, his hair falling slowly into his face, but he didn't even bother pushing it back behind his ears. "You must have been thinking I'm such a complete fucking asshole, this entire time." 

"Yup, kind of. I mean... everything you did, it made no fucking sense at the time, but if you really thought... Oh my god, you weren't just being an asshole, you were really trying to save my and Moira's imaginary relationship?" I didn't know whether to laugh or throw my arms around his neck.

"I didn't want to be the one to break anyone's heart. But... oh fuck, if you really had no idea why I broke up with you..." Horror filled his eyes as he realised he might have actually broken my heart by mistake, while trying to do the exact opposite.

"If you'd just fucking _said_ , I would have explained, you could have just taken it all back and we could have stayed together." I lowered my voice, almost afraid to voice it. "It would have been amazing."

As I said that, slowly, as if he was barely allowing himself to hope, he turned back to me, his eyes filled with the question he'd never thought to ask. "Would you... _ever_... give me another chance to be your lover?"

"Brandon, if you don't fucking kiss me right now, I'm going to punch you in the fucking face."

He just laughed, his eyes misting over. "I better do that, then. I know you, you're scary, you can break a man's arm." And with that, he leaned over, his eyes closing as he got near to me, and he pressed his lips ever so gently against mine.

Yes. Fireworks. That tingling sensation all the way down in the tips of my toes. A feeling like my stomach was trying to detach itself from my belly and maybe flutter its way out my mouth. And the realisation that between my legs, I was getting very, very wet. This was the real thing. I was in love with Brandon.

Pulling away slightly, his eyelashes fluttered open, drawing back to look at me as if he couldn't believe his luck. "Is this... are we... really... finally?"

"Yes," I said, knowing that whatever it was he was asking, I would agree. I reached out and touched the side of his face, stroking the slightly mottled skin of his jaw, cupping his face in my hands as I gazed into his eyes. Oh my god. All those times I thought he had been an absolutely inexplicable asshole, leading me on then pulling away. He had just been trying to do the honourable thing by leaving me alone. Alley's words echoed in my head. _Brandon? Insane, yes. Asshole? No_. She had been right.

"What?" he asked. "What is it? What are you thinking?"

"No, it's just..." I blushed, then looked back up at him. Alley was right. My Mom was right. Daniel was right. We _were_ totally into one another. "Do you realise, that I have been trying to get you to notice that I am in love with you, for about six months now."

"What..." He took my hands in his own, kissed them tenderly, then folded them and held them against his heart. "What have I done to deserve this?" The luminous smile on his face told me everything I needed to know. "I don't know, but I... I... I like it."

Abruptly Moira clattered down the stairs, her suitcase bumping along behind her. "Shit!" she swore, and I realised she'd broken her heel.

"Moira..." I called, and I dropped Brandon's hands. "I'm sorry, I have to... she's my best friend."

"It's fine, go to her," he told me, a stupid smile glazed across his face, that smile that Daniel called his chipmunk grin. "I'll be here waiting when you get back."

"Shit, Moira, I... I'm sorry... I..." I stuttered, but she turned around and fixed me with an evil glare.

"If you say _I told you so_ , I will fucking lamp you, black belt in judo or not."

"I didn't say it. And I didn't actually even tell you so, though god knows, I should have noticed, I should have talked to you earlier, I should have said something..."

"Oh, sweetie-darling, as if you could have changed anything..." Moira's sophistication seemed to boil away, and suddenly she looked very young, and a little bit scared.

"I should have noticed," I repeated, feeling slightly guilty though I didn't really know why.

"You had other things on your mind." She shrugged prettily, though she didn't quite seem to be able to shrug off her emotions like Daniel could.

"Are you going to be OK? Will you be alright getting back to NYC by yourself?"

"Fuck it, I have my professional reputation to uphold, and I have a fucking Rolling Stone cover story to file, and I am going to file that fucker, no matter what he did to me." She propelled herself out the door and pulled the suitcase after her, though I had to lift it off the floor and drop it down to the ground for her. "Boy, will I file that fucker. I'll file it good."

Closing the door behind me, I checked to see that no one was around, then leaned over towards her. "Listen, here's your scoop. Carlos is quitting the band. Daniel told me this afternoon when we were out at Paisley Park. He already quit twice during the recording of the last album, they don't think he's going to last out the tour." Moira gaped at me so greedily, I decided not to tell her what else Daniel had said - or done - to me while he was there. Except, well. Might as well kill two birds with one stone. I had said I wouldn't tell Brandon, but I hadn't said I wouldn't tell someone who would write it right out somewhere he couldn't help but see it. "Daniel said that's why they invited Secret Machines along on this tour. They've got their eye on Brandon for a new bassist, so they wanted him along, just in case."

Moira stared at me for a moment, then dug in her handbag for her iPad, and quickly scribbled all of this into her notes. "Oh my god, Charley... thank you. That's my scoop, and that's my cover, guaranteed."

"You take care of yourself," I told her, hugging her close. "I'll see you when the tour is over, and I get back to New York."

"You, too, Charley, you take care of your big, bad, old self. And while you're at it, could you please just shag that Brandon Curtis, and put him out of his desperation?"

I burst into laughter. Some day, I would actually tell her the full story of why he'd broken up with me, but not right now. I still couldn't fully believe it myself. "Do you know, I think we are actually, now, going to get back together. I think it's going to happen."

"Good. I'm glad for you. _Really_. Now I've got to find Tony and get him to pay for a first class ticket out of here. I am not leaving for anything less."

As if in confirmation of her words, Tony suddenly appeared at the stage door, seething with fury. "Where the fuck have you two been? You were due onstage five minutes ago. Where is that keyboardist of yours?" He stuck his head into the tourbus, and bellowed at Brandon. "Curtis! Get your fucking fat ass onstage, right now, or you're off this tour!"

"Yikes, we've just lost rather enough people from this tour tonight," I gulped, and made my way back to the stage. My thoughts were racing, my heart was pounding, I couldn't concentrate, and my mouth was too dry to sing, but Josh was standing by the side of the stage with three shots of tequila.

"Get that down you," he insisted. "Where the fuck is Brandon? Oh, here. Take this, and get out there!"

Brandon arrived, looking shaken and shellshocked, his face the exact mix of emotions, excitement and disbelief and terror and lust that I was feeling at that moment. The three of us nodded at one another, downed our shots, and then took the stage.

The show was a disaster. There was no other word for it. It wasn't even just a show that we weren't really feeling, like Milwaukee had been, it was an actual bad show. Brandon was so distracted he kept forgetting the lyrics of songs he'd sung a thousand times. He would try to play a song, but then he would look over at me, and he'd burst into helpless laughter. I wasn't much better, I was relying on pure muscle memory to get me through the songs, as my brain had completely abandonned me. I couldn't think, I couldn't reason, I couldn't do anything but look over at Brandon out of the corner of my eye and feel overcome by a kind of helpless joy, swinging my guitar about as if it were a toy.

But Josh carried on like a trooper, propelling us through songs with a single-minded dedication that kept us going even through the fuck-ups. He caught my eye between two songs, and shook his head. "Are you fucking drunk?"

"No!" I insisted. "I'm just... oh fuck. I'm..." I'm head over heels in love, and nothing else matters.

We somehow got through, I don't know how. Maybe it got a bit less rough towards the end, as we swung into the 1-2-3 cataclysmic punch of our final three songs. The audience were just confused, most of them just stared at us, like, what the fuck were we playing at? And that snapped me back to competency, remembering that they had paid money to see us - well, at least they had paid money to see Interpol, and we would fuck up their night if we weren't at least passable. But it was not a stellar performance, and it was not an experience I wanted to repeat, ever again. As I made my way off the stage to a trickle more applause than we'd come on to, I felt worry sloshing around the pit of my stomach.

By the time I got back to the dressing room, I was in a complete state, feeling my head spinning, but Brandon was a step behind me, storming into the room and collapsing into a chair, his legs splayed across the floor. "Fuck," he swore. "Fucking... oh my fucking shit, that was the worst show I have ever played in my entire fucking life. What the fuck was I thinking?"

I forced myself to the floor next to him, then I wrapped my arms around his neck and leaned my head against his shoulder. "Oh god, no. I was far worse than you were. Maybe we should... shit, if you want to sack me, I would completely understand."

"Sack you?" Brandon looked at me, horrified, bringing one of his hands up to rub his fingers gently through my hair. "Fuck no! But maybe we should... fuck, I dunno." He was pressing his lips against the side of my head like an almost-kiss. "Maybe we should cool it, you and me."

I pulled back and stared at him. "What? No, absolutely not. After all this time and all these misunderstandings, I am not going to let you go, now that I have you."

"No! But... I think... I guess I'm thinking maybe we should wait, hold off until we finish the tour, so this thing between us doesn't get in the way of our music."

"You think we can put the genie back in the bottle that easily?"

"Fuck, no, you're right. Then again, maybe I'm thinking that you and me, we should just go and find a quiet room somewhere, and we should just go off and fuck, and then fuck some more, and fuck until we're sore, and then fall asleep, and fuck again, until we can look at each other again without bursting into helpless laughter." He grinned as he said this, leaning his head over against mine as he pulled my head towards his with his hand. I wanted to burst out laughing, but then again, I also thought that that sounded like a hell of a good idea. I had _so_ many fucks to give him.

But at that moment, Josh thundered into the room, carrying the rest of his bottle of tequila. Brandon and I shot apart like guilty school children. "What? The fuck? Is up with you two tonight? I don't think there's a single song in that set that one of you didn't fuck up in some way," he roared. "Are you two taking crazy pills? Or is this like that time that you decided it would be really amazing to play a gig in Dallas, tripping balls on mushrooms, Brandon?"

"No! I..." Brandon stood up and started to pace the room, turning back and forth, tugging at his hair as he tried to put something into words. "Look, I'm sorry. I don't know how to tell you this, Josh, but. Well. Me and Charley, we have... well. We've decided to... We think that... Well, me and Charley, we're... We're me and Charley, now." He sounded completely insane, like he was trying to articulate something he still hadn't got his head around himself.

"Wait." Josh looked back and forth between Brandon and myself, at our helpless grins. "Are you trying to tell me that after six months of deep sighs and meaningful looks and spending every fucking waking hour of your lives holed up together trying to pretend you're not completely obsessed with each other, you have finally decided to get together as a couple?"

"Yeah." Brandon nodded decisively, then stretched, knitting his hands together over his head, then bringing them down to the back of his neck, standing with his elbows wide. And then he kind of crumpled, and gave up, and collapsed in a heap in the sofa at the other end of the dressing room. "I think...? Charley?"

"I, erm... yeah, um, wow. I think so." I mirrored his body language without even meaning to, knotting my fingers together behind my neck as I turned to Josh and grinned apologetically at him. "I think we're gonna do this. Because I can't pretend any more, that I don't lo..."

And Jesus Christ, she could not have picked a less opportune moment if she tried, but that was the moment that Jacinta chose to make her reappearance, though clearly she had not been listening outside the door, as she would never have done what she did next, if she had. She slipped in quietly, and poured herself into the sofa, sitting a little too close to Brandon for either my or his comfort.

"Well. Bran. I just wanted to thank you for, uh, leaping in and stopping me from making a very stupid mistake, back on the bus there."

"Yeah, uh, well," he stuttered, clearly having trouble with changing his train of thought. "Are you and Paul... are you OK now?"

Jacinta just laughed and stretched her hands above her head, twisting her hair into a loose rope, and showing her body to its advantage as she did. "Well, no, that would have been the mistake, to get back with Paul, after he took advantage of our _agreement_. We're finished. For good, this time."

"Oh. I'm sorry." Brandon's face was blank.

"There's no need to be sorry," Jacinta laughed, reaching out and tapping him playfully on the arm. It was so weird to watch her at work, like a parody of a master seductionist at play. But the next thing she said made my blood run cold. "Look, Bran, you and I, we're older and wiser now, and I've got a lot of shit out of my system. You don't think that maybe you and I could, I dunno... rekindle our romance, give it another try?" She stopped tapping him on the shoulder, and actually let her finger trace its way down the inside of his arm.

Brandon looked at her with the kind of puzzlement a lion might look at an attacking rodent, before batting it away with the movement of a single paw. "What?"

"I mean, you and I could be together again. But not like it was before. Different. Better. We don't even have to do the _agreement_."

"You're serious." Brandon blinked as if waiting for the punchline. But when she didn't respond, it clearly dawned on him that she was. "Shit, Jacinta, if you had asked me that, at any other point during the last three years... or at least at any point up until about two months ago, I might actually have said yes. And jumped at the chance." Jacinta smiled like a tigress, clearly only hearing what she wanted to hear, as she slipped off one of her shoes and tried to stick her toes up the inside of Brandon's trouser leg. "And I'd have been making the worst fucking mistake of my entire life." Suddenly, her face fell, as he removed his leg from her reach, and moved her hand back into her own lap. "Jacinta, we are never getting back together. I'm in love with someone else now, and have been for some time. I'm in love with Charley. I _love_ Charley." His face turned towards me as he said it, and I felt my cheeks flush with mingled love and pride. "And I want to be with her until... until she gets sick of me and kicks me out of our shared Florida retirement home."

Jacinta, to her great credit, recognised at least that she was beaten. She withdrew her limbs, pulled herself together, and managed a disappointed smile. "Well. I hope you two are very happy together." She sounded nothing of the sort, but I was willing to take any well-wishes I could get. As she stood up, she faced me, and managed a gruesome grimace of a smile. "Enjoy him, while you have him. I did," she sniped.

I could only burst out laughing in response. "I intend to."

And then she was gone, leaving Brandon and I staring at one another and descending into mutual cascades of giggles. Josh looked at us both, stared at the empty door through which she had disappeared, then looked down at the bottle of tequila he was still holding. "I think this calls for a toast," he announced, passing the bottle to me. "Brandon, when you two get married, can I be your best man?"

"Sure thing," Brandon nodded proudly, but I choked on my tequila.

"Whoa! Can we not think that far in the future? Can we just get a little used to this dating thing, first?"

"No." Brandon rose to his feet, and took the bottle from me, standing and facing me. "I never want to get used to it. I don't ever want to look at you and not think you are the single most beautiful woman I have ever seen in my entire life."

I blushed and looked down, as he took a swig of tequila without ever taking his eyes from my face. "You're crazy."

"Yep. And an asshole. That's why you love me." His eyes sparkled as he grinned. And I knew at that moment that I would do anything to make him grin again.

Josh laughed and took the bottle back from him. "Can you two please, go off and find some dark corner, and go and fuck in it, until you get this out of your systems, and stop being so disgustingly happy?"

"Come on." Brandon extended his hand and took mine as he led me off. "Let's go find a dark corner of the tour bus before Interpol get offstage."

"I don't want to fuck on the tourbus, it's nasty. Those beds are so cramped. Can't we wait until we find a hotel?"

"OK, when's our next motel break? I figure we've waited this long, we can probably hold out another twelve hours. Twenty-four hours tops." His eyes flashed with desire as he smiled slyly at me.

We fucked on the tourbus. We went planning just to lie down and hold each other for a bit, choosing Brandon's bottom bunk as marginally larger, kicking off our shoes and climbing inside. But holding one another led to kissing. And kissing led to touching, our arms and legs tangling together underneath his blankets. And touching led to slowly pulling one another's clothes off, pants and underwear trampled to the bottom of the bunk. And having no clothes on led to Brandon's cock working its way slowly between my thighs, until it was easier to have him in me than outside of me, as I arched my back to meet him in the narrow space. I grinned up at him, looking down at me with joy and lust as he pushed my hair out of my face and kissed me over and over again. I clung to him. I sucked his tongue into my mouth. I ground myself against him, until he wrenched an orgasm from my body with the pressure of his cock, and I moaned aloud, forgetting where I was until Brandon, laughing, put his hand over my mouth and worked his way towards his own climax. He came inside me, I could still feel his cock deep in me as his eyes glazed over, his breaths grew short and he kind of shuddered, and then he blinked, kissed my face, and slumped back against my chest, catching his breath.

"Fuck," he ejaculated, raising his head and looking down at me apologetically as he kissed the side of my face. "I'm sorry. I meant to pull out. We gotta be more careful."

I cast my mind back, trying to remember my last period. "We should be OK, given the timing, but you have to get some fucking condoms in North Dakota or wherever the fuck we are tomorrow," I whispered. Now that we were still, I could hear the throb of the bus's engines. We were in motion, which meant that there were 9 or 10 people in very close proximity to us, as we lay naked, tangled together, him moving his lips gently against my shoulder, and me quietly stroking his hair. I didn't think I would ever get enough of touching him, or looking into those soft, dark-brown eyes.

And then in the silence that made me realise how noisy we'd been, I heard voices from the lounge, and my face burned with shame.

"They've been quiet for a while, do you think they've stopped?"

"Are you listening? You sick fuck."

"No, I just want to know if it's safe to go to bed. My bunk is opposite them, remember?" Sam, sounding cranky.

"Brandon. She's fucking Brandon. The single most attractive female that any of us have ever persuaded back onto the bus through any means, and it's Heavy Metal Parking Lot who pulls her. There is no justice in this world." Carlos' unmistakable whine.

"No, it's actually really sweet. He's been into her forever, remember?" Paul, sounding like a proper romantic again.

"Did you know, she's actually been totally into him the whole time, and had no idea how much he wanted her, until I told her? It's a real life fairy tale. So guys, what do you say when we get to the next hotel break, we chip in and book them into the honeymoon suite?" Daniel, at least, being a graceful loser.

"May I suggest we do a whip round and source an extra large box of prophylactics to present them at the nearest opportunity."

"I've got spare condoms." A snigger, then a pause. "Do you think I should offer them some? Or would that be tasteless."

"Since when did you ever worry about being tasteless, Banks?"

"Can I go to bed yet?" Sam, exhaustion dripping from his voice.

I freed my closest arm from Brandon's hair, then twitched at the curtain, pulling it open a crack. "What the fuck are you doing?" Brandon demanded as I thrust my hand out of the space, and started making grabby motions.

"Paul, I think someone's trying to get your attention?"

Peels of laughter, then the sound of footsteps as someone walked unsteadily to the front of the bus. The rustle of sheets, then the footsteps returned, and someone thrust a fistful of foil wrappers into my hand. "Knock yourselves out."

"Oh god," Brandon groaned, putting his hand to his face as I withdrew my hand, revealing several packets of Trojans.

"What? I got us condoms, didn't I?"

"But now everybody will know..." He squirmed uncomfortably.

"Brandon, there are a dozen of us in a space measuring 12 foot by 40 foot. It's safe to say they'd find out sooner or later." And then, seeing the blush on his face, I started to grin evilly. "Besides. I finally got with the most attractive man on this tourbus, in fact, maybe in all of New York City. You don't think I want to... flaunt it a little?"

He flushed all the way to his ears, even as he grinned helplessly. "You're incorrigible."

I grinned back at him, pretending to bite him on the nose. "You love it."

He blushed darker and smiled wider, adoration glowing in his eyes. "I do. Secretly, I really fucking do. You're terrifyingly amazing, and I love it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And because this is my Alternate Universe, the chemistry between Charley and Brandon makes Secret Machines so awesome that Brandon never joins Interpol, and they stay together and put out a dozen more albums, all of them kosmische and ~AMAZING~ and they all live happily ever after.
> 
> ~~~ THE END ~~~


End file.
